HOW   ANIMALS    TALK 


***•    I  • 

, •          •••• 
....     •••* 


rhe  old  vixen  lies  apart  where  she  can  overlook  the  play  and  the 
neighborhood. 


HOW  ANIMALS  TALK 

And  Other  Pleasant  Studies 
of  'Birds  and  'Beasts 

BY 

WILLIAM  J.  LONG 

Author  of 

"School  of  the  Woods"  "Northern  Trails" 
"Brier-Patch  Philosophy"  etc. 

Illustrations  and  Decorations  by 
CHARLES  COPELAND 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS^PU^BLfSti&RS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


flow  ANIMALS  TALK 

C  «>*9»  ^  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
Published  August,  1919 

0-T 


Contents 


CHAP. 


I.  A  LITTLE  DOG-COMEDY 3 

II.  CRIES  OF  THE  DAY  AND  NIGHT 10 

III.  CHUMFO,  THE  SUPER-SENSE 34 

IV.  NATURAL  TELEPATHY 74 

V.  THE  SWARM  SPIRIT in 

VI.  WHERE  SILENCE  Is  ELOQUENT 137 

VII.  ON  GETTING  ACQUAINTED  .    .    .    ., 175 

VIII.  ON  KEEPING  STILL 195 

IX.  AT  CLOSE  RANGE      211 

X.  THE  TRAIL 237 

XL  WOODSY  IMPRESSIONS 247 

XII.  LARCH-TREES  AND  DEER 256 

XIII.  BLACK  MALLARDS 266 

XIV.  MEMORIES 283 

XV.  BEAVER  WORK 298 


Illustrations 

THE  OLD  VIXEN  LIES  APART  WHERE  SHE  CAN  OVER- 
LOOK THE  PLAY  AND  THE  NEIGHBORHOOD  .  .  .  Frontispiece 

HE  FLINGS  OUT  A  SINGLE  "HAW!"  AND  THE  DUCKS 
SPRING  ALOFT  ON  THE  INSTANT  AND  HEAD  SWIFTLY 

OUT  TO   SEA Facing  p.     20 

A  SHADOW  MOVED  FROM  THE  DARKER  SHADOW  OF  AN 
UPTURNED  ROOT — AND  A  GREAT  BUCK  STOOD 
ALERT  ON  THE  OPEN  SHORE "  54 

THEY  STOOD  TENSE  AS  THEY  SEARCHED  THE  PLAIN 
AND  SURROUNDING  WOODS  FOR  THE  SOURCE  OF 
DANGER  ^ "  102 

THE  COURSE  HE  TOOK  WAS  ENTIRELY  DIFFERENT 
FROM  THAT  TAKEN  BY  THE  MAN  WHO  BROUGHT 
THE  VIXEN  HOME "  166 

So  INNOCENT  AND  So  APPEALING  THAT  IT  Is  HARD  TO 

KEEP  YOUR  HANDS  FROM  HIM "  192 

His  MASSIVE  HEAD  THRUST  FORWARD  AS  HE  TRIED 
TO  PENETRATE  THE  FAR  DISTANCE  WITH  His 
NEAR-SIGHTED  EYES 252 

AT  SUCH  A  TIME  MY  POND  SEEMED  TO  AWAKEN  AND 

SHED  ITS  SILENCE  LIKE  A  GARMENT "  270 


I 


DID  you  ever  see  two  friendly  dogs  meet  when 
one  tried  to  tell  the  other  of  something  he 
had  discovered,  when  they  touched  noses,  stood 
for  a  moment  in  strange,  silent  parley,  then  wagged 
their  tails  with  mutual  understanding  and  hurried 
off  together  on  a  canine  junket? 

That  was  the  little  comedy  which  first  drew  my 
attention  to  the  matter  of  animal  communication, 
many  years  ago,  and  set  my  feet  in  the  unblazed 
trail  we  are  now  to  follow.  And  a  very  woodsy 
trail  you  shall  find  it,  dim  and  solitary,  with  plenty 
of  "blind"  spots  where  one  may  easily  go  astray, 
and  without  any  promise  of  what  waits  at  the 
other  end  of  it. 


How  Animals  Talk 


One  summer  afternoon  I  was  reading  by  the 
open  window,  while  my  old  setter,  Don,  lay  flat 
on  his  side  in  the  shade  of  a  syringa-bush.  He  had 
scooped  out  a  hollow  to  suit  him,  and  was  enjoying 
the  touch  of  the  cool  earth  when  a  fat  little  terrier, 
a  neighbor's  pet,  came  running  with  evident  ex- 
citement to  wake  the  old  dog  up.  Don  half  raised 
his  head,  recognized  his  friend  Nip  and  thumped 
the  ground  lazily  with  his  tail. 

"It's  all  right,  little  dog.  You're  always  excited 
over  something  of  no  consequence;  but  don't 
bother  me  this  hot  day,"  he  said,  in  dog-talk,  and 
dropped  his  head  to  sleep  again. 

But  Nip  was  not  to  be  put  aside,  having  some- 
thing big  on  his  mind.  He  nudged  Don  sharply, 
and  the  old  dog  sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  galvanized. 
For  an  interval  of  perhaps  five  seconds  they  stood 
motionless,  tense,  their  noses  almost  touching; 
then  Don's  plume  began  to  wave. 

"Oh,  I  see!"  he  said;  and  Nip's  stubby  tail 
whipped  violently,  as  if  to  add,  "Thank  Heaven 
you  do,  at  last!"  The  next  moment  they  were 
away  on  the  jump  and  disappeared  round  a  corner 
of  the  house. 

Here  was  comedy  afoot,  so  I  slipped  out  through 
the  back  door  to  follow  it.  The  dogs  took  no  notice 
of  me,  and  probably  had  no  notion  that  they  were 
observed;  for  I  took  pains  to  keep  out  of  sight 


A  Little  Dog-Comedy 


till  the  play  was  over.  Through  the  hay-field  they 
led  me,  across  the  pasture  lot,  and  over  a  wall  at 
the  foot  of  a  half-cultivated  hillside.  Peering 
through  a  chink  of  the  wall,  I  saw  Nip  dancing 
and  barking  at  a  rock-pile,  and  between  two  of 
the  rocks  was  a  woodchuck  cornered. 

For  weeks  Nip  had  been  laying  siege  to  that 
same  woodchuck,  which  had  a  den  on  the  hillside 
in  a  patch  of  red  clover,  most  convenient  to  some 
garden  truck.  A  dozen  times,  to  my  knowledge, 
the  little  dog  had  rushed  the  rascal;  but  as  Nip 
was  fat  and  the  chuck  cunning,  the  chase  always 
ended  the  same  way,  one  comedian  diving  into  the 
earth  with  a  defiant  whistle,  leaving  the  other  to 
scratch  or  bark  impotently  outside. 

Any  reasonable  dog  would  soon  have  tired  of 
such  an  uneven  game;  but  a  terrier  is  not  a  rea- 
sonable dog.  At  first  Nip  tried  his  best  to  drag 
Don  into  the  affair;  but  the  old  setter  had  long 
since  passed  the  heyday  of  youth,  when  any  kind 
of  an  adventure  could  interest  him.  In  the  pres- 
ence of  grouse  or  woodcock  he  would  still  become 
splendidly  animate,  and  then  the  years  would  slip 
from  him  as  a  garment;  but  to  stupid  ground- 
hogs and  all  such  "small  deer"  he  was  loftily  in- 
different. He  was  an  aristocrat,  of  true-blue  blood, 
and  I  had  trained  him  to  let  all  creatures  save  his 
proper  game  severely  alone.  So,  after  following 

2  [5] 


How  Animals  Talk 


Nip  once  and  finding  nothing  more  exciting  than 
a  hole  in  the  ground,  with  the  familiar  smell  of 
woodchuck  about  it,  he  had  left  the  terrier  to  his 
own  amusement. 

When  speed  failed,  or  wind,  it  was  vastly  amus- 
ing to  watch  Nip  try  to  adopt  cat-strategy,  hiding, 
creeping,  scheming  to  cut  off  the  enemy's  retreat. 
Almost  every  day  he  would  have  another  go  at  the 
impossible;  but  he  was  too  fat,  too  slow,  too 
clumsy,  and  also  too  impatient  after  his  doggy 
kind.  By  a  great  effort  he  could  hold  still  when 
his  game  poked  a  cautious  head  out  of  the  burrow 
for  a  look  all  around ;  but  no  sooner  did  the  chuck 
begin  to  move  away  from  his  doorway  than  the 
little  dog  began  to  fidget  in  his  hiding-place,  and 
his  tail  (the  one  part  of  a  dog  that  cannot  lie) 
would  wildly  betray  his  emotions.  Invariably  he 
made  his  rush  too  soon,  and  the  woodchuck  whis- 
tled into  his  den  with  time  to  spare. 

On  this  summer  afternoon,  however,  Nip  had 
better  luck  or  used  better  tactics.  Whether  he 
went  round  the  hill  and  came  over  the  top  from 
an  unexpected  quarter,  or  lay  in  wait  in  his  accus- 
tomed place  with  more  than  his  accustomed  pa- 
tience, I  have  no  means  of  knowing.  By  some  new 
device  or  turn  of  luck  he  certainly  came  between 
the  game  and  its  stronghold;  whereupon  the 
chuck  scuttled  down  the  hill  and  took  refuge  among 

[6] 


A  Little  Dog-Comedy 


the  rocks.  There  Nip's  courage  failed  him.  He 
was  a  little  dog  with  a  big  bark;  and  the  sight  of 
the  grizzled  veteran  with  back  against  a  stone 
and  both  flanks  protected  probably  made  him 
realize  that  it  is  one  thing  to  chase  a  chuck  which 
runs  away,  but  quite  another  thing  to  enter  his 
cave  while  he  stands  facing  you,  his  beady  eyes 
snapping  and  his  big  teeth  bare.  So  after  a  spell 
of  brave  barking  Nip  had  rushed  off  to  fetch  a 
larger  dog. 

All  that  was  natural  enough,  and  very  doglike; 
at  least  it  so  appeared  to  me,  after  seeing  other 
little  dogs  play  a  similar  part;  but  the  amazing 
feature  of  this  particular  comedy  was  that  Nip 
had  no  difficulty  in  getting  help  from  a  champion 
who  had  refused  to  be  interested  up  to  that  critical 
moment.  Through  the  wall  I  saw  him  lead  Don 
straight  to  the  rocks.  The  old  dog  thrust  in  his 
head,  yelped  once  as  he  was  bitten,  dragged  out 
the  chuck,  gave  him  a  shake  and  a  quieting  crunch ; 
then,  without  the  slightest  evident  concern,  he 
left  Nip  to  worry  and  finish  and  brag  over  the 
enemy. 

It  is  part  of  the  fascination  of  watching  any 
animal  comedy  that  it  always  leaves  you  with  a 
question;  and  the  unanswerable  question  here 
was,  How  did  Nip  let  the  other  dog  know  what  he 
wanted  ? 

[71 


How  Animals  Talk 


If  you  are  intimate  enough  with  dogs  to  have 
discovered  that  they  depend  on  their  noses  for  all 
accurate  information,  that  they  have,  as  it  were, 
a  smellscape  instead  of  a  landscape  forever  before 
them,  you  will  say  at  once,  "Don  must  have 
smelled  woodchuck";  but  that  is  a  merely  con- 
venient answer  which  does  not  explain  or  even 
consider  the  facts.  Don  already  knew  the  general 
smell  of  woodchuck  very  well,  and  was,  moreover, 
acquainted  with  the  odor  of  the  particular  wood- 
chuck  to  which  his  little  dog-chum  had  been  laying 
siege.  He  knew  it  at  first  hand  from  the  creature 
itself,  having  once  put  his  nose  into  the  burrow; 
he  got  a  secondary  whiff  of  it  every  time  Nip  re- 
turned from  his  fruitless  digging;  and  he  was 
utterly  indifferent  to  such  foolish  hunting.  Many 
times  before  the  day  of  reckoning  arrived  Nip 
had  rushed  into  the  yard  in  the  same  excitement, 
with  the  same  reek  of  earth  and  woodchuck  about 
him;  and,  so  far  as  one  may  judge  a  dog  by  his 
action,  Don  took  no  interest  in  the  little  dog's 
story.  Yet  he  was  off  on  the  instant  of  hearing 
that  the  familiar  smell  of  woodchuck  now  meant 
something  more  than  a  hole  in  the  ground. 

That  some  kind  of  message  passed  between  the 
two  dogs  is,  I  think,  beyond  a  reasonable  doubt; 
and  it  is  precisely  this  silent  and  mysterious  kind  of 
communication  (the  kind  that  occurs  when  your 

[8] 


A  Little  Dog-Comedy 


dog  comes  to  you  when  you  are  reading,  looks 
intently  into  your  face,  and  tells  you  without 
words  that  he  wants  a  drink  or  that  it  is  time  for 
him  to  be  put  to  bed)  that  I  propose  now  to  make 
clear.  Before  we  enter  that  trail  of  silence,  how- 
ever, there  is  a  much  simpler  language,  such  as  is 
implied  in  the  whistle  of  a  quail  or  the  howl  of  a 
wolf,  which  we  must  try  as  best  we  can  to  inter- 
pret. For  unless  our  ears  are  keen  enough  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  food  and  hunting  calls  of  an 
animal,  or  between  bob-white's  love  note  and  the 
yodel  that  brings  his  scattered  flock  together,  it 
will  be  idle  for  us  to  ask  what  message  or  impulse 
a  mother  wolf  sends  after  a  running  cub  when  she 
lifts  her  head  to  look  at  him  steadily,  and  he 
checks  his  rush  to  return  to  her  side  as  if  she  had 
made  the  murky  woods  echo  to  her  assembly 
clamor. 


II 


HPHE  simplest  or  most  obvious  method  of 
1  animal  communication  is  by  inarticulate 
cries,  expressive  of  hunger,  loneliness,  anger,  pleas- 
ure, and  other  primal  needs  or  emotions.  The 
wild  creatures  are  mostly  silent,  and  so  is  the 
bulk  of  their  "talk,"  I  think;  but  they  frequently 
raise  their  voice  in  the  morning  or  evening  twilight, 
and  by  observing  them  attentively  at  such  a  time 
you  may  measure  the  effect  of  their  so-called 
language.  Thus,  you  see  plainly  that  to  one  call 
the  animal  cocks  his  ear  and  gives  answer;  at 
another  call  he  becomes  wildly  excited;  a  third 
passes  over  him  without  visible  result;  a  fourth 
sets  his  feet  in  motion  toward  the  sound  or  else 

[10] 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


sends  him  flying  away  from  it,  according  to  its 
message  or  import. 

That  animal  cries  have  a  meaning  is,  therefore, 
beyond  serious  doubt;  but  whether  they  have, 
like  our  simplest  words,  any  definite  or  unchanging 
value  is  still  a  question,  the  probable  answer  being 
"No,"  since  a  word  is  the  symbol  of  a  thought  or 
an  idea;  but  animals  live  in  a  world  of  emotion, 
and  even  our  human  emotions  are  mostly  dumb  or 
inarticulate.  I  must  give  this  negative  answer, 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  I  have  learned  to 
call  various  birds  and  beasts,  and  that  I  can  meet 
Hotspur's  challenge  on  hearing  Glendower  boast 
that  he  can  call  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep: 

Why,  so  can  I,  or  so  can  any  man; 

But  will  they  come  when  you  do  call  for  them? 

Yes,  the  birds  and  beasts  will  surely  come  if  you 
know  how  to  give  the  right  call;  but  I  am  still 
doubtful  whether  among  themselves  their  audible 
cries  are  ever  quite  so  intelligible  as  is  their  silence. 

This  question  of  animal  speech  has  received  a 
different  and  more  positive  answer,  by  the  way, 
from  a  man  who  has  spent  many  years  in  persistent 
observation  of  wild  apes  and  monkeys.  After 
watching  the  lively  creatures  from  his  cage  in  the 
jungle,  attracting  them  by  means  of  various  fruits 
and  recording  their  jabber  in  a  phonograph,  he 

[n] 


How  Animals  Talk 


claims  to  have  discovered  the  monkey  words  for 
food,  water,  danger  and  other  elementary  matters. 
Moreover,  when  his  phonograph  repeats  these 
simian  words  the  monkeys  of  another  locality  seem 
to  understand  them,  since  they  run  to  the  proper 
dish  at  the  word  "food"  or  show  evident  signs  of 
alarm  at  the  word  "danger." 

It  is  doubtless  much  easier  to  deny  such  a  con- 
clusion than  to  prove  or  disprove  it ;  but  denial  is 
commonly  the  first  refuge  of  ignorance  and  the 
last  of  dogmatism,  and  with  these  we  are  not  con- 
cerned. I  do  not  know  whether  Garner  claims  too 
much  or  too  little  for  his  monkeys;  I  have  never 
had  opportunity  to  test  the  matter  in  the  jungle, 
and  the  caged  monkeys  with  which  I  have  occa- 
sionally experimented  are  too  debased  of  habit  or 
too  imbecile  in  their  affections  to  interest  one  who 
has  long  dealt  with  clean  wild  brutes.  At  times, 
however,  when  I  have  watched  a  monkey  with  an 
organ-grinder,  I  have  noticed  that  the  unhappy 
little  beast  displays  a  lively  interest  in  the  chitter 
of  chimney-swifts — a  lingo  which  to  my  dull  ears 
sounds  remarkably  like  monkey-talk.  But  that  is 
a  mere  impression,  momentary  and  of  little  value; 
while  Garner  speaks  soberly  after  long  and  im- 
mensely patient  observation. 

To  return  to  first-hand  evidence:  among  wild 
creatures  of  my  acquaintance  the  crows  come 

[12] 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


nearer  than  any  others  to  something  remotely 
akin  to  human  speech.  Several  times  I  have 
known  a  tame  crow  to  learn  a  few  of  our  words  and, 
what  is  much  more  significant,  to  show  his  su- 
periority over  parrots  and  other  mere  mimics  by 
using  one  or  more  of  the  words  intelligently. 
There  was  one  crow,  for  example,  that  would  re- 
peat the  word  "hungry"  in  guttural  fashion  when- 
ever he  thought  it  was  time  for  him  to  dine.  He 
used  this  word  very  frequently  when  his  dinner  or 
supper  hour  drew  nigh,  giving  me  the  impression, 
since  he  did  not  confuse  it  with  two  other  words  of 
his  vocabulary,  that  he  associated  the  word  with 
the  notion  of  food  or  of  eating ;  and  if  this  impres- 
sion be  true  to  fact,  it  indicates  more  than  appears 
on  the  surface.  We  shall  come  to  the  wild  crows 
and  their  "talk"  presently;  the  point  here  is,  that 
if  this  bird  could  use  a  new  human  word  in  asso- 
ciation with  a  primal  need,  there  is  nothing  to 
prevent  him  from  using  a  sound  or  symbol  of  his 
ov/n  in  the  same  way.  In  other  words,  he  must 
have  some  small  faculty  of  language. 

Another  tame  crow,  which  an  imaginative  boy 
named  Pharaoh  Necho  because  of  his  hippety-hop 
walk,  proved  himself  inordinately  fond  of  games, 
play,  social  gatherings  of  every  kind.  To  excite- 
ment from  any  source,  whether  bird  or  brute  or 
human,  he  was  as  responsive  as  a  weather-vane; 

[13] 


How  Animals  Talk 


but  his  play  ran  mostly  to  mischief,  or  to  some- 
thing that  looked  like  joking,  since  he  could  never 
see  a  contemplative  cat  or  a  litter  of  sleepy  little 
pigs  without  going  out  of  his  way  to  tweak  a  tail 
and  stir  up  trouble.  At  times  he  would  watch, 
keeping  out  of  sight  in  a  leafy  tree  or  on  the  roof 
of  the  veranda,  till  Tabby,  the  house  cat,  came  out 
and  sat  looking  over  the  yard,  her  tail  stretched 
out  behind  her.  If  she  lay  down  to  sleep,  or  sat 
with  tail  curled  snugly  around  her  forepaws,  she 
was  never  molested ;  but  the  moment  her  tail  was 
out  of  her  sight  and  mind  Necho  saw  the  chance 
for  which  he  had  apparently  been  waiting.  Glid- 
ing noiselessly  down  behind  the  unconscious  cat 
he  would  tiptoe  up  and  hammer  the  projecting 
tail  with  his  beak.  It  was  a  startling  blow,  and 
at  the  loud  squall  or  spitting  jump  that  followed 
he  would  fly  off,  "chuckling"  immoderately. 

When  Necho  saw  or  heard  a  gang  of  boys  as- 
sembled he  would  neglect  even  his  dinner  to  join 
them;  and  presently,  without  ever  having  been 
taught,  he  announced  himself  master  of  a  new  art 
by  yelling,  "Ya-hoo!  Come  on!"  which  was  the 
rallying-cry  of  the  clan  in  that  neighborhood. 
He  said  this  in  ludicrous  fashion,  but  unmistak- 
ably to  those  who  knew  him.  Sometimes  he  would 
croak  the  words  softly  to  himself,  as  if  memorizing 
them  or  pleased  at  the  sound;  but  for  the  most 

[14] 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


part  he  waited  till  boys  were  gathering  for  a 
swim  or  a  ball  game,  when  he  would  launch 
himself  into  flight  and  go  skimming  down  the 
road,  whooping  out  his  new  cry  exultantly.  What 
meaning  he  attached  to  the  words,  whether  of 
boys  or  fun  or  mere  excitement,  I  have  no  means 
of  knowing. 

After  learning  this  much  of  our  speech  Necho 
took  to  the  wild,  following  a  call  of  the  blood,  I 
think;  for  it  was  springtime  when  he  disappeared, 
and  the  crows'  mating  clamor  sounded  from  every 
woodland.  These  birds  are  said  to  kill  every 
.member  of  their  tribe  who  returns  to  them  after 
living  with  men,  ,  and  the  saying  may  have  some 
truth  in  it.  I  have  noticed  that  many  tame  crows 
are  like  tame  baboons  in  that  they  seem  mortally 
afraid  of  their  wild  kinsmen ;  but  Necho  was  ap- 
parently an  exception.  If  he  had  any  trouble 
when  first  he  returned  to  his  flock,  the  matter  was 
settled  without  our  knowledge,  and  during  the 
following  autumn  there  was  evidence  that  he  was 
again  in  good  standing.  Long  afterward,  as  I 
roamed  the  woods,  I  might  hear  his  lusty  "Ya- 
hoo! Come  on!"  from  where  he  led  a  yelling  rabble 
of  crows  to  chivvy  a  sleeping  owl  or  jeer  at  a 
running  fox;  and  occasionally  his  guttural  cry 
sounded  over  the  tree-tops  when  I  could  not  see 
him  or  know  what  mischief  was  afoot.  He  never 


How  Animals  Talk 


returned  to  the  house,  and  never  again  joined  our 
play  or  allowed  a  boy  to  come  near  him. 

Not  all  crows  have  this  "gift  of  speech";  and 
the  fact  that  one  tame  crow  learns  to  use  a  few 
English  words,  while  five  or  six  others  hold  fast 
to  their  own  lingo,  has  led  to  the  curious  belief 
that,  if  you  want  to  make  a  crow  talk,  you  must 
split  his  tongue.  How  such  a  belief  originated  is  a 
mystery;  but  it  was  so  fixed  and  so  widespread 
when  I  was  a  boy  that  no  sooner  was  a  young  crow 
taken  from  a  nest  than  jack-knives  were  sharpened, 
and  the  leathery  end  of  the  crow's  tongue  was 
solemnly  split  after  grave  debate  whether  a 
seventh  or  a  third  part  was  the  proper  medicine. 
If  the  crow  talked  after  that,  it  was  proof  positive 
that  the  belief  was  true;  and  if  he  remained  dumb, 
it  was  a  sign  that  there  was  something  wrong  in 
the  splitting;  which  is  characteristic  of  a  large 
part  of  our  natural-history  reasoning.  The  de- 
bates I  have  heard  or  read  on  the  "unanswerable" 
question  of  how  a  chipmunk  digs  a  hole  without 
leaving  any  earth  about  the  entrance  (a  question 
with  the  simplest  kind  of  an  answer)  are  mostly 
suggestive  of  the  split-tongue  superstition  of  crow 
language. 

Of  the  tame  crows  I  have  chanced  to  observe, 
only  a  small  proportion  showed  any  tendency  to 
repeat  words;  and  these  gifted  ones  are,  I  judge, 

[16] 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


the  same  crows  that  in  a  wild  state  may  occasion- 
ally be  heard  whistling  like  a  jay,  or  "barking" 
or  "hooting"  or  making  some  other  call  which 
ordinary  crows  do  not  or  cannot  make,  and  which 
shows  an  individual  talent  of  mimicry.  This  last, 
which  I  have  repeatedly  observed  among  wild 
crows,  is  a  very  different  matter  from  speech; 
but  from  the  fact  that  these  mimics  learn  to  use  a 
few  English  words  more  or  less  intelligently  one 
might  not  be  far  wrong  in  concluding  that  every 
crow  has  in  his  brain  a  small  undeveloped  nest  of 
cells  corresponding  to  our  "bump"  of  language. 
A  closer  observation  of  the  wild  birds  may 
confirm  this  possibility.  Thus,  when  you  hear  a 
solitary  crow  in  a  tree-top  crying,  "Haw!  Haw!" 
monotonously,  dipping  his  head  or  flirting  his  tail 
every  time  he  repeats  it,  you  may  be  sure  that 
somewhere  within  range  of  his  eye  or  voice  a 
flock  of  his  own  kind  are  on  the  ground,  feeding. 
That  this  particular  haw  is  a  communication  to  his 
fellows,  telling  them  that  the  sentinel  is  on  watch 
and  all  is  well,  seems  to  me  very  probable.  There 
are  naturalists,  I  know,  who  ingeniously  resolve 
the  whole  phenomenon  into  blind  chance  or  acci- 
dent ;  but  that  does  not  square  very  well  with  the 
intelligence  of  crow  nature  as  I  have  observed  it; 
nor  does  it  explain  the  fact  that  once,  when  I 
avoided  the  sentinel  and  crept  near  enough  to 

[17] 


How  Animals  Talk 


shoot  two  members  of  the  flock  he  was  supposedly 
guarding,  the  rest  were  no  sooner  out  of  danger 
than  they  whirled  upon  the  recreant  and  beat 
him  savagely  to  the  ground. 

If  you  are  interested  enough  to  approach  any 
crow-sentinel  in  a  casual  or  indifferent  kind  of 
way  (he  will  take  alarm  if  you  approach  quickly  or 
directly),  you  must  note  that  his  haw  changes 
perceptibly  while  you  are  yet  far  off.  It  is  no 
longer  formal  or  monotonous;  nor  is  it  uttered 
with  the  same  bodily  attitude,  as  your  eyes  plainly 
see.  You  would  pronounce  and  spell  the  cry 
exactly  as  before  (it  should  be  written  aw  or  haw, 
not  caw,  for  there  is  no  consonant  sound  in  it); 
but  if  your  ears  are  keen,  they  will  detect  an 
entirely  different  accent  or  inflection,  as  they 
detect  different  accents  and  meanings  when  a 
sailor's  casual  or  vibrant  "Sail  ho!"  sings  down 
from  the  crow-nest  of  a  ship.  Now  run  a  few 
steps  toward  the  sentinel,  or  pretend  to  hide  and 
creep,  and  instantly  the  haw  changes  again.  This 
time  the  accent  is  sharper  even  to  your  dull  ears; 
and  hardly  is  the  cry  uttered  when  all  the  crows  of 
the  unseen  flock  whirl  into  sight,  heading  swiftly 
away  to  the  woods  and  safety. 

Apparently,  therefore,  this  simple  haw  of  the 
crow  is  like  a  root  word  of  certain  ancient  lan- 
guages, the  Chinese,  for  example,  which  has  sev- 

[18] 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


eral  different  intonations  to  express  different  ideas, 
but  which  all  sound  alike  to  foreign  ears,  and 
which  are  spelled  alike  when  they  appear  in 
foreign  print.  To  judge  by  the  crows'  action,  it  is 
certain  that  their  elementary  haw  has  at  least 
three  distinct  accents  to  express  as  many  different 
meanings:  one  of  "all's  well,"  another  of  "watch 
out,"  and  a  third  of  "be  off!"  Moreover,  the 
birds  seem  to  understand  these  different  meanings 
as  clearly  as  we  understand  plain  English;  they 
feed  quietly  while  haw  means  one  thing,  or  spring 
aloft  when  it  means  another;  and  though  you 
watch  them  a  lifetime  you  will  see  nothing  to 
indicate  that  there  is  any  doubt  or  confusion  in 
their  minds  as  to  the  sentinel's  message. 

Not  only  the  crows,  but  the  wild  ducks  as  well, 
and  the  deer  and  the  fox  and  many  other  creat- 
ures, seem  to  understand  crow-talk  perfectly,  or  at 
least  a  part  of  it  which  concerns  their  own  welfare. 
Thus,  on  the  seacoast  in  winter  you  hear  the  crows 
hawing  continually  as  they  follow  the  tide-line  in 
search  of  food.  For  hours  this  talk  goes  on, 
loudly  or  sleepily,  and  the  wild  ducks  pay  abso- 
lutely no  attention  to  it ;  though  they  must  know 
well  that  hungry  crows  will  kill  a  wounded  or 
careless  duck  and  eat  him  to  the  bones  whenever 
they  have  a  chance.  Because  of  this  dangerous 
propensity  you  would  naturally  expect  the  water- 

[19] 


How  Animals  Talk 


fowl  to  be  suspicious  of  the  black  freebooter  and 
to  be  alert  when  they  see  or  hear  him;  but  no 
sooner  do  you  begin  to  hunt  with  a  gun  than  you 
learn  a  thing  to  make  you  respect  the  crow,  and 
perhaps  to  make  you  wonder  how  much  or  how 
very  little  you  know  of  the  ways  of  the  wood  folk. 
Many  of  the  ducks,  the  black  or  dusky  mallards 
especially,  like  to  come  ashore  every  day  in  a 
secluded  spot  under  the  lee  of  a  bank,  there  to 
rest  or  preen  or  take  a  quiet  nap  in  company.  It 
is  a  tempting  sight  to  see  a  score  or  a  hundred  of 
the  splendid  birds  in  a  close  group,  their  heads 
mostly  tucked  under  their  wings;  but  it  is  prac- 
tically impossible  to  stalk  them,  for  the  reason 
that  the  crows  are  forever  ranging  the  shore,  and 
a  crow  never  passes  a  group  of  sleeping  ducks 
without  lifting  his  flight  to  take  a  look  over  the 
bank  behind  them.  What  his  motive  is  no  man 
can  say;  we  only  note  that,  in  effect,  he  stands 
sentinel  for  the  ducks  against  a  common  enemy, 
as  he  habitually  does  for  his  own  kind.  There  is 
no  escaping  that  keen,  searching  glance  of  his ;  he 
sees  you  creeping  through  the  beach-grass  or  hid- 
ing behind  a  bush.  He  flings  out  a  single  haw! 
with  warning,  danger,  derision  in  it;  and  now  the 
same  ducks  that  have  heard  him  all  day  without 
concern  spring  aloft  on  the  instant  and  head 
swiftly  out  to  sea. 

[20) 


EJV  flings  out  a  single  "Haw!"  and  the*  duck$  spring  aloft  o,n,the 
H    instant  and  head  swiftly  out  to  sea.  ;\;  ;  \  ; 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


The  crows  have  several  other  variations  of 
the  same  cry,  expressive  of  other  matters,  which 
all  the  tribe  seem  to  understand  clearly,  but  which 
are  meaningless  to  human  ears.  When  I  imitate 
the  distress-call  of  a  young  crow,  for  example,  I 
can  bring  a  flock  over  my  head  at  almost  any 
time,  the  only  condition  being  that  I  keep  well 
concealed.  At  the  first  glimpse  of  a  man  in  hiding 
they  sheer  off,  and  it  is  seldom  that  I  can  bring 
them  back  a  second  time  to  the  same  spot;  yet 
I  have  a  companion,  one  who  utters  a  call  very 
much  like  mine  to  ordinary  ears,  who  can  bring 
the  flock  back  to  him  even  after  they  have  seen 
him  and  suffered  at  his  hands.  More  than  once 
I  have  stood  beside  him  in  the  woods  and  fired  a 
gun  repeatedly,  killing  a  crow  and  scattering  the 
flock  pell-mell  at  every  shot;  but  no  sooner  does 
he  begin  to  talk  crow-talk  than  back  they  come 
again.  What  he  says  to  them  that  I  do  not  or 
cannot  say  is  something  that  only  the  crows 
understand. 

It  is  commonly  assumed  that  they  come  to  such 
a  call  because  they  hear  in  it  a  cry  for  help  from 
one  of  their  own  kind.  That  is  undoubtedly  true 
at  times ;  for  a  help-call,  especially  from  a  cub  or 
nestling,  is  a  summons  to  which  most  animals  and 
birds  instinctively  respond.  And,  strangely  enough, 
the  smaller  they  are  the  braver  they  seem  to  be. 

[21] 


How  Animals  Talk 


A  mother-partridge  has  more  than  once  flown  in 
my  face  or  beaten  me  with  her  wings,  while 
"fierce"  hawks,  owls  and  eagles  have  merely  cir- 
cled around  me  at  a  safe  distance  when  I  came 
near  their  young.  In  the  majority  of  cases,  how- 
ever, I  think  that  birds  come  to  a  distress-call 
simply  because  the  excitement  of  an  individual 
spreads  to  all  creatures  within  sight  or  hearing, 
just  as  a  crowd  of  men  or  women  will  become 
excited  and  rush  to  a  common  center  before  they 
know  what  the  stir  is  all  about. 

In  confirmation  of  this  theory,  it  is  not  necessary 
to  cry  like  a  distressed  young  crow  to  bring  a  flock 
over  your  head.  The  imitated  hawing  of  an  old 
crow  will  do  quite  as  well,  if  you  throw  the  proper 
excitement  into  it.  Again,  on  any  summer  day 
you  will  hear  in  your  own  yard  the  pip-pip  of 
arriving  or  departing  robins.  The  same  call  is 
uttered  by  both  sexes,  at  all  times  and  in  all 
places ;  yet  if  you  listen  closely  you  must  note  that 
there  is  immense  variety  in  the  accent  or  inflection 
of  even  this  simple  sound.  The  call  is  clear, 
ringing,  joyous  when  the  robins  first  arrive  in  the 
spring;  it  is  subdued  when  they  gather  for  the 
autumn  flight ;  it  is  sleepy  or  querulous  when  they 
stand  full-fed  by  the  nest,  and  most  business-like 
when  they  launch  themselves  into  flight,  which  is 
the  moment  when  you  are  most  sure  to  hear  it. 

[22] 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


A  robin  utters  this  call  hundreds  of  times  every 
day,  in  one  accent  or  another,  and  neither  the 
other  robins  nor  their  feathered  neighbors  seem 
to  pay  any  attention  to  it ;  but  when  a  red  squirrel 
comes  plundering  a  nest,  and  the  mother  robin 
sends  forth  the  same  pip-pip  with  a  different 
intonation,  then  the  response  is  instantaneous.  The 
alarm  spreads  swiftly  over  wood  and  field ;  clamor 
uprises,  and  birds  of  many  species  come  rushing 
in  from  all  directions;  not  because  they  have 
heard  that  Meeko  is  again  killing  young  robins 
(at  least,  it  does  not  seem  so  to  me),  but  because 
excitement  is  afoot,  and  they  are  bound  to  join 
it  or  find  out  about  it  before  they  can  settle  down 
comfortably  to  their  own  affairs. 

There  is  an  interesting  way  by  which  you 
may  test  this  contagion  of  excitement  for  yourself. 
Hide  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  or  in  any  other  bird 
neighborhood  in  the  early  morning,  preferably  at 
a  season  when  every  nest  has  eggs  or  fledglings 
in  it;  press  two  fingers  against  your  lips  and  draw 
the  breath  sharply  between  them,  repeating  the 
squeaky  cry  as  rapidly  as  possible.  The  sound 
has  a  peculiarly  exciting  quality  even  to  human 
ears  (twice  have  I  seen  men  run  wildly  to  answer 
it),  and  birds  come  to  it  as  boys  to  a  fire  alarm. 
In  a  few  moments  you  may  have  them  streaming 
in  from  the  four  quarters  of  bird  world,  all  highly 

[23] 


How  Animals  Talk 


excited,  and  perhaps  all  ready  to  protect  some 
innocent  nest  from  snake  or  crow  or  squirrel. 
Because  the  response  is  most  electric  at  the  season 
when  fledglings  are  most  helpless,  you  are  apt  to 
think  that  this  call  of  yours  is  mistaken  by  mother 
birds  for  a  cry  for  help.  That  may  be  true;  but 
be  not  too  sure  about  it.  The  fledglings  them- 
selves will  come  almost  as  readily  to  the  call  when 
the  nesting  season  is  over  and  gone. 

I  have  tried  that  same  exciting  summons  in  many 
places,  wild  or  settled,  and  commonly  but  not 
invariably  with  the  same  result,  as  if  it  were  a 
word  from  the  universal  bird  language.  Once  in  a 
secluded  valley  of  northern  Italy  I  saw  a  hunter 
with  his  gun,  and  promptly  forgot  my  own  errand 
in  order  to  chum  with  him  and  find  out  what  he 
had  learned  of  the  wood  folk.  He  was  hunting 
birds  to  eat.  "Those  birds  there!"  he  said,  point- 
ing to  a  passing  flock  which  I  did  not  recognize, 
but  which  seemed  pitifully  small  game  to  me. 
Presently  I  learned  that  he  could  not  shoot  flying, 
and  was  having  such  bad  luck  that,  he  said,  the 
devil  surely  had  a  hand  in  it.  He  was  a  smiling, 
companionable  loafer,  and  for  a  time  I  tagged 
after  him,  watching  him  amusedly  as  he  made 
careful  but  vain  stalks  of  little  birds  that  seemed 
to  have  been  made  wild  by  much  hunting.  In  a 
spirit  of  thoughtless  curiosity,  and  perhaps  also 

[Hi 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


to  test  bird  nature  in  a  strange  land,  I  invited  the 
hunter  to  hide  with  me  in  a  thicket  while  I  gave 
the  call  which  had  so  often  brought  the  feathered 
folk  of  my  own  New  England  woods.  At  my  cry 
a  wisp  of  birds  whirled  in  to  light  at  the  edge  of 
the  covert;  the  Italian's  gun  roared;  and  then  I 
discovered  that  the  wretch  was  killing  skylarks. 

I  have  since  had  many  an  uncomfortable  mo- 
ment at  the  thought  of  how  many  lovely  songsters 
may  have  paid  with  their  lives  for  that  ungodly 
experiment;  for  my  companion  hailed  me  as  a 
master  Nimrod  from  the  New  World ;  and  when  I 
refused,  on  the  plea  of  bad  luck,  to  teach  him  the 
call,  I  heard  him  give  a  distressingly  good  imita- 
tion of  it.  Yet  the  experiment  seemed  to  prove 
that  everywhere  birds  quickly  catch  the  contagion 
of  excitement ;  that  in  many  cases  they  respond  to 
a  call  because  it  stirs  their  anger  or  curiosity  rather 
than  because  it  conveys  any  definite  summons  for 
help  or  warning  of  danger. 

When  you  open  your  ears  among  the  beasts 
you  hear  precisely  the  same  story;  that  is,  certain 
cries  apparently  have  definite  meaning,  like  the 
accented  haw  of  a  crow,  while  others  convey  and 
also  spread  a  wild  emotion.  Of  all  beasts,  the 
wolves  are  perhaps  the  keenest,  the  most  intelli- 
gent, and  these  seem  to  have  definite  calls  for  food 
or  help  or  hunting  or  assembly.  Such  calls  are 

[25] 


How  Animals  Talk 


strictly  tribal,  I  think,  like  the  dialects  of  Indians, 
since  the  call  of  a  coyote  is  quite  different  from  the 
call  of  a  timber  wolf  even  when  both  intend  to 
convey  the  same  meaning.  A  friend  of  mine,  an 
excellent  mimic,  who  spent  many  years  in  the 
West,  has  shot  more  than  a  score  of  coyotes  after 
drawing  them  within  range  by  sending  forth  the 
food-call  in  winter;  but  though  he  knows  also  the 
food-call  of  the  timber  wolf,  he  has  never  once 
deceived  these  larger  brutes  by  his  imitation  of  it ; 
nor  has  he  ever  seen  a  wolf  of  one  species  respond 
to  the  food  or  hunting  call  of  another. 

Like  most  other  wild  animals,  timid  or  savage, 
the  sensitive  wolves  all  respond,  but  much  more 
warily  than  the  birds,  to  almost  any  inarticulate 
cry  expressive  of  emotional  excitement;  just  as 
your  dog,  who  is  yesterday's  wolf,  grows  uneasy 
when  you  whine  in  your  nose  like  a  distressed 
puppy,  or  leaps  up,  ready  to  fly  out  of  door  or 
window,  when  a  wild  ki-yi  breaks  out  in  the  dis- 
tance. Indeed,  it  is  easier  to  keep  a  boy  from  a 
fire  than  a  dog  from  a  crowd  or  excitement  of  any 
kind ;  and  the  same  is  true  of  their  wild  relatives, 
though  the  wariness  of  the  latter  keeps  them  hid- 
den where  you  cannot  follow  their  action.  The 
greatest  commotion  I  ever  witnessed  in  a  timber- 
wolf  pack  was  occasioned  by  the  moaning  howl 
of  a  wounded  wolf  on  a  frozen  lake  in  midwinter. 

[26] 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


It  was  a  cry  utterly  unlike  anything  I  had  ever  re- 
corded up  to  that  time,  and  every  time  they  heard 
it  the  grim  beasts  ran  wildly  here  and  there, 
howling  like  lunatics^  Then,  when  the  wounded 
one  grew  quiet,  they  would  approach  and  sniff  him 
all  over;  after  which  some  would  sit  on  their  tails 
and  watch  him  closely,  while  others  circled  about 
on  the  ice,  using  their  noses  like  hounds  in  search 
of  a  lost  trail. 

Occasionally,  when  I  have  had  these  uncanny 
brutes  near  me  in  the  North,  I  have  tried  to  call 
them  or  make  them  answer  by  giving  what  seemed 
to  me  a  very  good  imitation  of  their  cries;  but 
seldom  has  a  howl  of  mine  been  returned.  On 
the  contrary,  the  brutes  almost  always  stop  their 
howling  whenever  I  begin  to  talk  wolf-talk,  as  if 
they  were  listening  and  saying,  "What  under  the 
moon  is  that  now?"  Then  old  Tomah,  the 
Indian,  comes  out  of  his  blanket  and  gives  a  howl 
exactly  like  mine,  but  with  something  in  it  which 
I  cannot  fathom  or  master,  and  instantly  from  the 
snow-filled  woods  comes  back  the  wild  wolf 
answer. 

Likewise,  I  have  called  moose  in  many  different 
localities,  and  am  persuaded  that  it  makes  very 
little  difference  what  kind  of  whine  or  grunt  or 
bellow  you  utter,  since  anything  resembling  a 
moose-call  will  do  the  trick  if  you  know  how  to 

[27] 


How  Animals  Talk 


put  the  proper  feeling  into  your  voice.  After 
listening  carefully  to  many  callers,  I  note  this 
characteristic  difference:  that  one  man  invariably 
makes  the  game  wary,  suspicious,  fearful,  no 
matter  how  finely  he  calls;  while  another  in  the 
same  place,  with  the  same  trumpet  and  apparently 
with  the  same  call,  manages  to  put  something  into 
his  voice,  something  primal,  emotional  and  es- 
sentially animal,  which  brings  a  bull  moose  hur- 
riedly to  investigate.  Thus  it  happens  that  the 
worst  caller  I  ever  heard — worst  in  that  he  had 
no  sense,  no  cunning,  no  knowledge  of  moose 
habits,  and  uttered  a  blatant,  monstrous  roar 
unlike  anything  a  sane  man  ever  heard  in  the 
heavens  above  or  the  earth  beneath — was  still  the 
most  successful  in  getting  his  game  into  the  open. 
Three  nights  in  succession  I  heard  him  call  in  a 
region  where  moose  were  over-shy  from  much 
hunting,  and  where  my  own  imitation  of  "the 
animal's  natural  voice  brought  small  response. 
In  that  time  fourteen  bulls  answered  him,  all  that 
were  within  hearing,  I  think;  and  every  one  of 
the  great  brutes  threw  caution  to  the  dogs  and 
came  out  on  the  jump. 

From  such  observations,  and  from  others  which 
I  have  not  chronicled,  I  judge  that  the  higher 
orders  of  birds  and  beasts  have  a  few  calls  which 
stand  for  definite  things,  or  mental  images  of 

[28! 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


things,  but  that  their  ordinary  cries  merely  pro- 
ject an  emotion  or  excitement  in  such  a  way  that 
it  stirs  a  similar  emotion  in  other  birds  or  beasts 
of  the  same  species;  just  as  the  sound  of  hearty 
laughter  invariably  stirs  the  feeling  of  mirth  in 
men  who  hear  it,  or  any  inarticulate  cry  of  fear 
sets  human  feet  in  motion — toward  the  cry  if  the 
hearer  be  brave,  or  away  from  it  if  he  be  of  cow- 
ardly disposition.  Yet  even  among  men,  who  by 
civilization  have  lost  some  of  their  natural  virtues, 
the  primal  impulse  still  lives.  Like  the  wolf  or  the 
raccoon,  the  man's  first  impulse  is  to  rush  to  his 
distressed  or  excited  fellows.  If  he  turns  and  runs 
the  other  way,  it  means  simply  that  his  artificial 
habit  or  training  has  deadened  his  natural  instincts. 

In  speaking  of  "man"  here  I  refer  to  the  genus 
homo,  not  to  the  male  specimen  thereof.  Among 
brutes  most  of  the  natural  instincts  are  the  same 
in  both  sexes;  they  vary  in  degree,  not  in  kind, 
and  the  instincts  of  the  female  are  commonly  the 
stronger  or  keener.  Yet  I  have  noticed,  or  think 
I  have  noticed,  this  difference:  when  a  cry  of 
distress  is  uttered  in  the  woods,  the  first  bird  or 
beast  to  appear  is  almost  always  a  female ;  but  the 
male  is  quicker  on  his  toes  at  a  battle-yell  or  a 
senseless  clamor. 

This  last  is  a  personal  impression,  and  cannot 
well  be  verified.  The  only  record  I  have  which 

[29] 


How  Animals  Talk 


might  pass  for  evidence  in  the  matter  comes  from 
my  observation  of  the  crows.  In  the  spring  many 
of  these  questionable  birds  indulge  their  taste  for 
eggs  or  tender  flesh  and  soon  become  incurable 
nest-robbers;  and  for  that  reason  I  often  shoot 
them,  to  save  other  and  more  useful  birds.  The 
method  is  very  simple:  one  hides  and  calls,  and 
takes  the  crows  as  they  appear  in  swift  flight,  the 
number  shot  being  commonly  limited  to  one  or 
two  at  a  time.  And  I  have  observed  repeatedly, 
at  different  times  and  in  different  localities,  that 
when  I  use  the  distress-call  of  a  young  crow  as  a 
decoy,  the  first  to  appear  over  the  tree-tops  is  a 
female.  This  is  the  common  rule,  with  occasional 
exceptions  to  point  or  emphasize  it.  But  when- 
ever I  clamor  like  a  crow  that  has  discovered  an 
owl,  or  send  forth  a  senselessly  excited  hawing, 
almost  invariably  the  first  crow  to  come  whooping 
over  is  a  long-winged  and  glossy  old  male. 

Does  it  seem  to  you  like  thoughtless  barbarity 
on  my  part  to  kill  crows  in  this  fashion  ?  Perhaps 
it  is  barbarous;  I  do  not  quite  know;  but  it 
certainly  is  not  thoughtless.  One  cannot  blame 
the  crows  for  their  taste  in  eggs  or  nestlings;  but 
one  must  note  that  they  destroy  an  enormous  num- 
ber of  insectivorous  birds,  and  that  the  harm 
they  do  in  this  respect  outweighs  their  usefulness 
in  destroying  field-mice  and  beetles.  I  write  this 

[30] 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


with  regret;  for  I  admire  the  crow,  and  consider 
him  as,  of  all  birds,  the  most  intelligent  and  the 
most  considerate  of  his  own  kind.  I  know  that  it 
is  a  moot  question  whether  the  crow  does  more 
harm  or  good,  and  that  some  naturalists  have  set- 
tled it  in  his  favor;  but  I  have  too  often  caught 
him  plundering  nests  in  the  springtime  to  be  much 
impressed  by  his  alleged  usefulness  at  other  sea- 
sons. I  think  that  he  may  have  been  once  useful 
in  preserving  the  so-called  balance  of  nature ;  but 
that  balance  is  now  dangerously  unequal.  The 
crow  has  flourished  even  in  well-settled  regions, 
thanks  to  his  superior  wit,  while  other  useful 
birds  have  fearfully  diminished,  and  this  at  a  time 
when  our  orchards  and  gardens  call  more  and  more 
insistently  for  their  help.  Because  of  his  dispro- 
portionate numbers  the  crow  now  appears  to  me, 
like  our  destructive  and  useless  cats,  as  a  positive 
menace  in  a  country  where  he  once  occupied  a 
modest  or  inconspicuous  place — such  a  place  as  he 
still  occupies  in  the  wilderness,  where  I  meet  him 
but  rarely,  and  where  I  am  glad  to  leave  him  in 
peace,  since  he  does  not  seriously  interfere  with  his 
more  beautiful  or  more  useful  neighbors.  But  we 
are  wandering  from  the  dim  trail  of  animal  com- 
munication, which  we  set  out  to  follow. 

The  inarticulate  but  variously  accented  cries  of 
which  we  have  spoken  constitute  the  only  animal 

[31] 


How  Animals  Talk 


language  to  which  our  naturalists  have  thus  far 
paid  any  attention ;  and  doubtless  some  of  them 
would  object  to  the  use  of  the  word  "language" 
in  such  a  connection.  In  all  matters  of  real 
natural  history,  however  (real,  that  is,  in  the  sense 
of  dealing  at  first  hand  with  individual  birds  or 
beasts),  I  am  much  more  inclined  to  listen  to  old 
Tomah,  who  says,  when  I  ask  him  whether  ani- 
mals can  talk:  "Talk?  Course  he  kin  talk! 
Eve'ting  talk  in  hees  own  way.  Hear  me  now 
make-um  dat  young  owl  talk."  And,  stepping 
outside  the  circle  of  camp-fire  light,  Tomah  utters 
a  hoot,  which  is  answered  at  a  distance  every  time 
he  tries  it.  After  parleying  with  the  stranger  in 
this  tentative  fashion,  Tomah  sends  forth  a  dif- 
ferent call;  and  immediately,  as  if  in  ready  ac- 
ceptance of  an  invitation,  a  barred  owl  glides  like 
a  gray  shadow  into  a  tree  over  our  heads.  I  have 
heard  that  same  old  Indian  use  horned-owl  talk, 
wolf  and  beaver  and  woodpecker  talk,  and  several 
other  dialects  of  the  wood  folk,  in  the  same  fascinat- 
ing and  convincing  way. 

One  must  judge,  therefore,  that  most  cries  of  the 
day  or  night  have  their  meaning,  if  only  one  knows 
how  to  hear  them;  yet  they  constitute  but  a  part, 
and  probably  a  very  small  part,  of  the  animal's 
habitual  communication  with  his  fellows.  The 
bulk  of  it  appears  to  be  of  that  silent  kind  which 

[3*1 


Cries  of  the  Day  and  Night 


passed  between  Don  and  Nip,  and  which,  I  have 
reason  to  believe,  is  the  common  language  of  the 
whole  animal  kingdom. 

To  prove  such  a  matter  is  plainly  impossible. 
Even  to  investigate  it  frankly  is  to  enter  a  shadowy 
realm  between  the  conscious  and  subconscious 
states,  where  no  process  can  be  precisely  followed, 
and  where  the  liability  to  error  is  always  present. 
Let  us  therefore  begin  on  familiar  ground  by  ex- 
amining certain  phenomena  which  we  cannot 
explain,  to  be  sure,  but  which  have  been  observed 
frequently  enough  to  give  us  confidence  that  we 
are  dealing  with  realities.  I  refer  especially  to 
that  curious  warning  or  "feeling"  of  impending 
danger,  which  is  supposed  (erroneously,  I  think)  to 
depend  upon  the  so-called  sixth  sense  of  animals 
and  men. 


Ill 


FOR  the  word  chumfo  I  am  indebted  to  a  tribe 
of  savages  living  near  Lake  Mweru,  in  Africa, 
and  am  grateful  to  them  not  only  for  naming  a 
thing  which  has  no  name  in  any  civilized  language, 
but  also  for  an  explanation  of  its  function  in  the 
animal  economy.  We  shall  come  to  the  definition 
of  the  word  presently,  after  we  have  some  clear 
notion  of  the  thing  for  which  the  word  stands. 
As  Thomas  a  Kempis  says,  if  I  remember  correctly, 
"It  is  better  to  feel  compassion  than  to  know  how 
to  define  it." 

By  way  of  approach  to  our  subject,  let  it  be 
understood  that  chumfo  refers  in  a  general  way  to 
the  animal's  extraordinary  powers  of  sense  per- 

[34l 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


ception,  which  I  would  call  his  "sensibility"  had 
not  our  novelists  bedeviled  that  good  word  by 
making  it  the  symbol  of  a  false  or  artificial  emotion- 
alism. Every  wild  creature  is  finely  "sensible" 
in  the  true  meaning  of  the  word,  his  sensitiveness 
being  due  to  the  fact  that  there  is  nothing  dead 
or  even  asleep  in  nature ;  the  natural  animal  or  the 
natural  man  is  from  head  to  foot  wholly  alive  and 
awake.  And  this  because  every  atom  of  him,  or 
every  cell,  as  a  biologist  might  insist,  is  of  itself 
sentient  and  has  the  faculty  of  perception.  Not 
till  you  understand  that  first  principle  of  chumfo 
will  your  natural  history  be  more  than  a  dry 
husk,  a  thing  of  books  or  museums  or  stuffed 
skins  or  Latin  names,  from  which  all  living  interest 
has  departed. 

I  am  sometimes  asked,  "What  is  the  most  in- 
teresting thing  you  find  in  the  woods?"  the  ques- 
tion calling,  no  doubt,  for  the  name  of  some  bird 
or  beast  or  animal  habit  that  may  challenge  our 
ignorance  or  stir  our  wonder.  The  answer  is,  that 
whether  you  search  the  wood  or  the  city  or  the 
universe,  the  only  interesting  thing  you  will  ever 
find  anywhere  is  the  thrill  and  mystery  of  awaken- 
ing life.  That  the  animal  is  alive,  and  alive  in  a 
way  you  ought  to  be  but  are  not,  is  the  last  and 
most  fascinating  discovery  you  are  likely  to  make 
in  nature's  kingdom.  After  years  of  intimate 

[351 


How  Animals  Talk 


observation,  I  can  hardly  meet  a  wild  bird  or 
beast  even  now  without  renewed  wonder  at  his 
aliveness,  his  instant  response  to  every  delicate 
impression,  as  if  each  moment  brought  a  new  mes- 
sage from  earth  or  heaven  and  he  must  not  miss  it 
or  the  consequent  enjoyment  of  his  own  sensations. 
The  very  sleep  of  an  animal,  when  he  seems  ever 
on  the  thin  edge  of  waking,  when  he  is  still  so  in 
touch  with  his  changing  world  that  the  slightest 
strange  sound  or  smell  or  vibration  brings  him  to 
his  feet  with  every  sense  alert  and  every  muscle 
ready, — all  this  is  an  occasion  of  marvel  to  dull 
men,  who  must  be  called  twice  to  breakfast,  or 
who  meet  the  violent  clamor  of  an  alarm-clock 
with  the  drowsy  refrain: 

Yet  a  little  sleep,  a  little  slumber, 

A  little  more  folding  of  the  hands  to  sleep! 

You  will  better  understand  what  I  mean  by  the 
animal's  aliveness,  his  uncloying  pleasure  in  the 
sensation  of  living,  if  you  can  forget  any  tragical 
theories  or  prejudices  of  animal  life  which  you  have 
chanced  to  read,  and  then  frankly  observe  the 
first  untrammeled  creature  you  meet  in  the  out- 
door world.  Here  at  your  back  door,  for  example, 
is  a  flock  of  birds  that  come  trooping  from  the 
snowy  woods  to  your  winter  feast  of  crumbs. 
See  how  they  dart  hither  and  yon  between  mouth- 

[36] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


fuls,  as  if  living  creatures  could  not  be  still  or  con- 
tent with  any  one  thing,  even  a  good  thing,  in  a 
world  of  endless  variety.  Look  again,  more 
closely,  and  see  how  they  merely  taste  of  the 
abundance  on  your  table,  and  straightway  leave  it 
for  a  morsel  that  the  wind  blows  from  under  their 
beaks,  and  that  they  are  bound  to  have  if  it  takes 
all  winter.  Every  other  minute  they  flit  to  a 
branch  above  the  table,  look  about  alertly,  meas- 
ure the  world  once  more,  make  sure  of  the  dog 
that  he  is  asleep,  and  of  the  sky  that  it  holds  no 
hawk;  then  they  wipe  their  bills  carefully,  using 
a  twig  for  a  napkin,  and  down  to  the  table  they  go 
to  begin  all  over  again.  So  every  bite  is  for  them 
a  feast  renewed,  a  feast  with  all  the  spices  of  the 
new,  the  fresh,  the  unexpected  and  the  advent- 
urous in  it. 

Or  again,  when  you  enter  the  wilderness  remote 
from  men,  here  is  a  deer  slipping  shadow-like 
through  the  shadowy  twilight,  daintily  tasting 
twenty  varieties  of  food  in  as  many  minutes,  and 
keeping  tabs  on  every  living  or  moving  or  growing 
thing  while  she  eats;  or  a  fox,  which  seems  to 
float  along  like  thistle-down  in  the  wind,  halting, 
listening,  testing  the  air-smells  as  one  would  ap- 
preciate a  varied  landscape,  playing  Columbus  to 
every  nook  or  brush-pile  and  finding  in  it  some- 
thing that  no  explorer  ever  found  before.  Such  is 

4  [37] 


How  Animals  Talk 


the  natural  way  of  a  fox,  which  makes  a  devious 
trail  because  so  many  different  odors  attract  him 
here  or  there. 

In  fine,  to  watch  any  free  wild  creature  is  to 
understand  the  singing  lines  from  "Saul": 

How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living,  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  in  joy! 

It  is  to  understand  also  the  spirit  of  Browning, 
who  is  hardly  a  world  poet,  to  be  sure,  but  who 
has  the  distinction  of  being  the  only  famous  poet 
who  is  always  alive  and  awake.  Homer  nods; 
Dante  despairs  and  mourns;  Shakespeare  has  a 
long  period  of  gloom  when  he  can  write  only  ter- 
rible tragedies  of  human  failure;  other  great  poets 
have  their  weary  days  or  melancholy  hours,  but 
Browning  sings  ever  a  song  of  abounding  life. 
Even  his  last,  the  Epilogue  to  "Asolando,"  is  not 
a  swan-song,  like  Tennyson's ;  it  is  rather  a  bugle- 
call,  and  it  sounds  not  the  "taps"  of  earth,  but  the 
"reveille"  of  immortality.  But  we  are  wandering 
from  our  woodsy  trail. 

Those  who  make  an  ornithology  of  mere  feath- 
ers, or  who  imagine  they  know  an  animal  because 
they  know  what  the  scientists  have  said  about 
him,  see  in  this  instant  responsiveness  of  the  wild 
creature  only  a  manifestation  of  fear,  and  almost 
every  book  of  birds  or  beasts  repeats  the  story 

[38] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


of  terror  and  tragedy.  Yet  every  writer  of  such 
books  probably  owns  a  dog  that  displays  in  less 
degree  (because  he  is  less  alive)  every  single 
symptom  of  the  wild  creature,  including  his  alleged 
fears;  and  the  dog,  far  from  leading  a  tragic  or 
terror-governed  life,  is  hilariously  disposed  to  make 
an  adventure  or  a  picnic  of  every  new  excursion 
afield.  Moreover,  if  one  of  these  portrayers  of 
animal  fears  or  tragedies  has  ever  had  an  adventure 
of  his  own;  if  he  has  penetrated  a  wild  region  on 
tiptoe,  or  run  the  white  rapids  in  a  canoe,  or 
heard  the  wind  sing  in  his  ears  on  a  breakneck 
gallop  across  country,  or  trailed  a  bear  to  his  covert, 
or  hunted  bandits  in  the  open,  or  followed  the 
bugles  when  they  blew  for  war, — then  he  must 
know  well  that  these  unforgetable  moments,  when 
a  man's  senses  all  awaken  and  his  nerves  tingle 
and  he  treads  the  earth  like  a  buck  in  spring,  are 
the  only  times  in  a  man's  dull  life  when  he  feels 
himself  wholly  alive  and  a  man.  That  a  naturalist 
should  forget  this  when  he  sees  an  alert  wild 
animal,  and  deny  his  dog  and  his  own  experience 
of  life  by  confounding  alertness  with  fear,  is 
probably  due  not  so  much  to  his  own  blindness 
as  to  his  borrowed  notions,  such  as  the  "struggle 
for  existence,"  the  "reign  of  terror,"  and  other 
hallucinations  which  have  been  packed  into  his 
head  in  the  name  of  science  or  natural  history. 

[39] 


How  Animals  Talk 


Just  to  take  a  walk  with  your  dog  may  be  a 
revelation  to  you,  as  most  simple  matters  are  when 
you  dare  to  view  them  for  yourself  without 
prejudice.  In  fact,  what  is  any  revelation  or  dis- 
covery but  seeing  things  as  they  are?  This  daily 
walk  over  familiar  ground,  which  bores  you  be- 
cause you  must  take  it  for  exercise,  leaving  out  of 
it  the  fun  which  is  the  essential  element  of  any 
exercise,  is  to  your  dog  another  joyous  and  ex- 
pectant exploration  of  the  Indes.  He  explored 
the  same  ground  yesterday,  to  be  sure,  but  all 
sorts  of  revolutions  and  migrations  take  place  over- 
night ;  and  if  he  be  a  real  dog,  not  a  spoiled  pet, 
he  will  uncover  more  surprises  on  the  familiar  road 
than  you  uncover  in  the  morning  newspaper. 
Follow  him  sympathetically  as  he  finds  endlessly 
interesting  things  where  you  find  little  but  bore- 
dom, and  you  may  learn  that  there  are  three 
marked  differences  between  you  and  a  normal 
animal:  first,  that  he  keeps  the  spirit  of  play, 
which  you  have  well-nigh  lost;  second,  that  he 
lives  in  his  sensations  and  is  happy,  while  you 
dwell  mostly  in  your  thoughts  and  postpone  hap- 
piness for  the  future;  and  third,  that  he  is  alive 
now,  every  moment,  and  you  used  to  be  alive  the 
day  before  yesterday. 

In  all  this  you  are  simply  typical  of  our  un- 
natural civilization,  which  begins  to  enumerate  or 

[40] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


describe  us  as  so  many  thousand  "souls,"  doubt- 
less because  every  single  body  of  us  is  moribund 
or  asleep.  Consider  our  noses,  for  example.  They 
are  the  seat  of  a  wonderful  faculty,  more  depend-  KoA 
able  than  sight  or  hearing;  they  are  capable  of  ^ 
giving  us  sensations  more  varied  than  those  of  £ 
color,  and  almost  as  enjoyable  as  those  of  har- 
mony;  they  can  be  easily  trained  so  as  "to  recog- 
nize every  tree  and  plant  and  growing  thing  by  its 
delicate  fragrance;  they  would  add  greatly  to  our 
safety  and  convenience,  as  well  as  to  our  enjoy- 
ment, did  we  use  them  as  nature  intended;  yet  so 
thoroughly  neglected  are  they,  as  a  rule,  that  it 
takes  a  burning  rag  or  a  jet  of  escaping  coal-gas 
to  rouse  them  to  the  immense  and  varied  world  of 
odors  in  which  an  animal  lives  continually. 

At  present  I  am  the  alleged  owner  of  a  young 
setter,  Rab,  who  has  reached  the  stage  of  develop- 
ment when  he  thinks  he  owns  me.  For  after  you 
have  properly  trained  a  dog,  there  comes  a  brief 
time  when  he  discovers  with  joy  that  he  can 
make  you  do  things  for  him;  and  then  he  is  like  a 
child  who  discovers  that  he  can  make  you  talk 
(that  is,  show  some  sign  of  life)  by  asking  you 
questions.  And  this  young  setter  has,  I  am  con- 
vinced, a  very  low  opinion  of  human  aliveness, 
since  there  is  never  a  day  when  he  does  not  give 
me  a  hint  that  he  considers  me  a  poor  cripple — 

[41] 


How  Animals  Talk 


excepting,  perhaps,  the  rare  days  when  I  take  him 
woodcock-hunting,  when  he  mildly  approves  of 
me. 

One  night,  after  waiting  a  long  time  at  my  feet 
till  I  should  become  animate,  Rab  followed  me 
hopefully  into  the  dark  kitchen,  where  he  had 
never  before  been  allowed  to  go.  I  heard  his  steps 
behind  me  only  as  far  as  the  door,  and  thought 
he  was  afraid  to  enter;  but  when  I  turned  on  the 
light,  there  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  "  frozen "  into 
a  beautiful  point,  his  head  upturned  to  a  bell  and 
battery  on  the  wall.  Presently  a  mouse  hopped 
from  the  battery  into  a  waste-basket  on  the  floor, 
and  Rab  pointed  the  thing  stanchly,  his  whole 
body  quivering  with  delight  when  a  faint  odor  stole 
to  his  nostrils  or  a  rustle  of  paper  to  his  ears. 
From  the  basket  the  mouse  streaked  to  the  coal- 
hod,  and  Rab  pointed  that,  too,  and  then  a  crack 
under  a  door,  and  a  yawning  closet  drawer.  "My 
bones!"  he  said,  trying  to  claw  the  drawer  open. 
"This  is  a  good  place;  something  is  alive  here!" 
Then  he  came  over  and  sat  in  front  of  me,  looking 
up  in  my  face,  his  head  twisted  sideways,  to  de- 
mand why  I  had  so  long  kept  him  out  of  the  only 
part  of  the  house  that  was  not  wholly  dormant. 

Though  the  adventure  was  twelve  months  ago, 
"age  cannot  wither  it,  nor  custom  stale  its  in- 
finite variety,"  for  every  night  Rab  comes  to  me 

[42] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


where  I  am  reading,  nudges  my  elbow,  paws  my 
book,  sits  in  front  of  me  to  yawn  hugely,  gives  me 
no  peace,  in  short,  till  I  follow  him  to  the  kitchen 
for  another  go  at  the  waste-basket,  the  coal-hod 
and  all  the  closet  drawers.  It  is  of  no  avail  to 
leave  the  doors  open;  he  will  not  go  unless  I  join 
him  in  the  enjoyment  of  something  that  lives.  A 
short  time  since  we  flushed  another  mouse  in  the 
cellar,  whither  he  followed  me  to  look  after  the 
furnace;  and  now  he  pesters  me  by  day  as  well 
as  by  night  whenever  he  finds  me,  as  he  thinks, 
wrapped  in  unmanly  lethargy. 

With  all  his  vivacity  this  young  setter,  who 
seems  so  alert  among  mere  men,  becomes  a  dull 
creature  the  moment  you  compare  him  with  his 
wild  kindred.  He  cannot  begin  to  interpret  the 
world  through  his  senses  as  they  instantly  interpret 
it,  and  he  would  starve  to  death  where  they  live 
on  the  fat  of  the  land.  Once  on  a  forest  trail  I 
came  upon  him  pointing  stanchly  at  the  edge  of  a 
little  opening  that  lumbermen  had  made  for  yard- 
ing logs.  Just  across  the  opening,  where  a  jumper 
road  joined  the  yard,  stood  a  noble  buck,  and  he 
was  "pointing/'  too,  for  he  was  face  to  face  with 
such  a  creature  as  he  had  never  before  seen. 
Both  animals  were  like  statues,  so  motionless  did 
they  stand ;  but  there  was  this  difference,  that  the 
dog  rested  solidly  on  earth  and  might  have  been 

[43] 


How  Animals  Talk 


carved  from  marble,  while  the  buck  seemed  to 
rest  on  air  and  to  be  compounded  of  some  ethereal 
essence.  His  eyes  fairly  radiated  light  and  color. 
The  velvet  on  his  antlers  seemed  to  grow  as  I 
looked  upon  it,  like  the  velvet  moss  in  which  the 
fairies  are  said  to  rest.  Every  hair  of  him  from 
nose  to  tail  tip  was  gloriously  alive.  A  moment 
only  he  stood,  but  long  enough  for  me  to  carry  a 
picture  of  him  forever  afterward ;  then  he  bounded 
up  the  old  road,  and  Rab  came  running  over  to 
ask  me  what  new  thing  he  had  discovered. 

This  marvelous  alertness  of  the  natural  animal 
is  commonly  attributed  to  the  fact  that  his  physi- 
cal senses  are  more  acute  than  ours;  but  that  is 
true  only  of  some  particular  sense  of  a  certain 
creature.  The  wolf's  nose,  the  deer's  ear,  the 
vulture's  eye, — these  are  probably  keener  than  any 
similar  human  organ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
man's  eye  is  very  much  keener  for  details  than  the 
eye  of  wolf  or  deer;  his  senses  of  touch  and  taste 
are  finer  than  anything  to  be  found  among  the 
lower  orders,  and  the  average  of  his  five  senses  is 
probably  the  highest  upon  earth.  Yet  the  animal 
is  more  responsive  to  impressions  of  the  external 
world,  and  this  is  due,  I  think,  to  the  fact  that  he 
lives  more  in  his  sensations;  that  he  is  not  cum- 
bered, as  we  are,  by  inner  phenomena;  that  he  is 
free  from  pain,  care,  fear,  regret,  anxiety  and 

[44] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


other  mental  complexities;  that  he  is  accustomed 
to  hear  (that  is,  to  receive  vibrations)  through  his 
feet  or  his  skin  quite  as  much  as  through  his  ears ; 
and  that  his  whole  body,  relaxed  and  at  ease,  often 
becomes  a  first-class  receiving  instrument  for  what 
we  call  sense  impressions. 

As  an  example  of  this  last,  note  the  wild  creat- 
ure's response  to  every  change  of  air  pressure,  a 
response  so  immediate  and  certain  that  one  might 
accurately  forestall  the  barometer  by  observing 
the  action  of  birds,  or  even  of  chickens,  which 
anticipate  a  storm  long  before  your  face  has  noted 
the  moist  wind  or  your  eye  the  rain-cloud.  In  the 
winter  woods  I  have  often  seen  a  deer  feeding 
greedily  (quite  at  variance  with  his  usual  dainty 
tasting)  at  an  hour  long  before  or  long  after  his 
accustomed  time,  and  as  I  traveled  wider  I  would 
find  other  deer  doing  the  same  thing.  I  used  to 
wonder  at  this,  till  I  noticed  that  such  unusual 
action  was  always  followed  by  a  storm — not  an 
ordinary  brief  snowfall,  to  which  deer  pay  little 
attention  beyond  seeking  shelter  while  it  lasts,  but 
a  severe  storm  or  blizzard,  during  which  most 
animals  lie  quiet  for  a  whole  day,  or  even  two  or 
three  days,  without  stirring  abroad  for  food. 

Whether  an  element  of  forethought  enters  into 
this  act  of  "stuffing"  themselves  before  a  storm, 
or  whether  it  is  wholly  instinctive,  like  the  bear's 

[45] 


How  Animals  Talk 


change  of  diet  before  he  dens  for  his  winter  sleep, 
is  a  question  which  does  not  concern  us,  since 
nobody  can  answer  it.  In  either  case  the  deer 
have  felt,  as  surely  as  our  most  sensitive  instru- 
ments, not  only  the  decreasing  pressure  of  the  air 
but  also  its  increasing  moisture. 

That  such  sensitiveness  is  not  of  any  one  organ, 
but  rather  of  the  whole  body,  becomes  more  evi- 
dent when  we  study  the  lower  orders — fishes,  for 
example,  which  may  winter  under  a  dozen  fathoms 
of  water  and  a  two-foot  blanket  of  ice,  but  which 
nevertheless  respond  to  the  changing  air  currents 
far  above  their  heads.  Once  on  a  northern  lake, 
in  March,  I  kept  tabs  on  some  trout  for  fourteen 
consecutive  days,  and  it  seemed  that  they  moved 
from  deep  to  shallow  water  or  back  again  when- 
ever the  wind  veered  to  the  proper  quarter.  I  had 
a  water-hole  cut  in  the  thick  ice,  and,  finding  a 
trout  under  it  one  day,  I  kept  a  couple  of  lines  with 
minnows  there  constantly.  The  hole  was  in  a 
shallow  place,  over  a  sandy  bottom,  and  by  put- 
ting my  face  to  the  opening,  with  a  blanket  over 
my  head  to  exclude  the  upper  light,  I  could  dimly 
see  the  shadows  move  in  from  deep  water.  On 
six  scattering  days,  when  the  wind  came  light  or 
strong  from  the  south,  two  of  the  days  bringing 
snow,  the  trout  evidently  moved  shoreward,  since 
I  caught  them  abundantly,  as  many  as  I  needed 

[46] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


and  some  to  spare;  but  on  the  other  eight  days, 
some  clear  and  some  stormy,  when  the  wind  was 
north  of  east  or  west,  not  a  trout  was  seen  or 
caught,  and  only  once  was  a  minnow  of  mine 
missing. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  trout  simply  followed 
their  food-supply;  but  I  doubt  this,  since  trout  ap- 
parently feed  very  little  in  winter;  and  in  formu- 
lating any  theory  of  the  matter  one  must  account 
for  the  fact  that  big  fish  or  little  fish  moved  shore- 
ward whenever  the  wind  blew  south.  The  phe- 
nomenon may  appear  less  foreign  to  our  experience, 
though  not  less  mysterious  to  our  reason,  if  we 
rememoer  that  an  old  wound  or  a  corn  may  by 
its  aching  foretell  a  storm,  or  that  a  person  suf- 
fering from  nervous  prostration  may  by  his  sud- 
den depression  know  that  the  barometer  will  soon 
be  falling. 

The  same  bodily  sensitiveness  appears  un- 
changed in  our  domestic  animals.  I  once  saw  a 
deer  and  her  two  fawns  kneel  down  in  the  woods, 
and  watched  them  in  astonishment  as  they  rested 
for  some  time  on  their  knees,  as  if  in  supplica- 
tion; then  the  ground  rocked  under  me,  and  I 
knew  that  their  feet  had  felt  the  tremor  of  an 
earthquake  long  before  I  was  sensible  of  it.  Such 
an  observation  seemed  wonderful  to  me  till  I 
learned  that  our  sheep  are  equally  sensitive  in  their 

[47] 


How  Animals  Talk 


elastic  hoofs,  and  that  our  pigs  respond  not  only 
to  vibration  of  earth  or  air,  but  also  to  some  finer 
vibration  set  in  motion,  apparently,  by  human 
excitement. 

Moreover,  I  have  known  one  dog,  old  and 
half  deaf,  that,  whether  asleep  or  awake,  would 
respond  to  the  faint  tremor  of  his  master's  au- 
tomobile before  it  came  into  sight  or  hearing. 
And  what  there  is  in  the  tremor  of  one  machine 
to  distinguish  it  from  another  of  the  same  make 
and  power  is  something  that  the  unaided  ear  can 
hardly  measure.  The  dog  lived  under  a  hilltop, 
on  a  highway  over  which  scores  of  automobiles 
passed  daily;  and  on  holidays,  when  his  master 
was  at  home,  the  scores  would  increase  to  hun- 
dreds. He  would  sleep  for  hours  on  the  veranda, 
paying  no  heed  to  the  noise  or  smell  or  dust  of  the 
outrageous  things,  till  suddenly  he  would  jump 
up,  bark,  and  start  for  the  gate;  and  in  a  moment 
or  two  we  would  see  the  master's  auto  rise  into 
sight  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

The  instant  response  of  deer  or  dog  to  minute 
external  impressions,  though  startling  enough,  is 
probably  wholly  physical,  a  matter  of  vibrations 
on  one  side  and  of  nerves  on  the  other;  but  there 
are  other  phenomena  of  sensitiveness  (and  these 
bring  us  nearer  to  our  trail  of  animal  communica- 

[48] 


oy  the  Super-sense 


tion)  for  which  it  is  much  harder  to  find  a  satis- 
factory physical  explanation.  Such  is  the  feeling 
or  warning  of  unsensed  danger,  or  the  premonition 
that  some  one  unseen  and  unheard  is  approaching 
— a  phenomenon  which  seems  to  be  common 
among  animals,  to  judge  from  repeated  observa- 
tion, and  which  appears  often  enough  in  human 
beings  to  make  not  only  the  inquisitive  Society 
for  Psychical  Research  but  almost  every  thought- 
ful man  or  woman  take  some  note  of  it. 

For  example,  a  man  awake  in  his  bed  sees  his 
son,  whom  he  thinks  safely  ashore  in  a  foreign 
country,  fall  overboard  from  a  steamer  to  his 
death,  at  the  very  hour  when  the  son  did  fall  over- 
board, as  was  afterward  learned.  Or  a  woman, 
the  wife  of  a  sea-captain,  sitting  on  the  veranda 
at  home  in  the  bright  moonlight,  sees  the  familiar 
earth  vanish  in  a  world  of  water,  and  looks  sud- 
denly upon  her  husband's  ship  as  it  reels  to  the 
gale,  turns  over  to  the  very  edge  of  destruction, 
and  then  rights  itself  with  half  its  crew  swept 
overboard — and  all  this  while  the  precise  event 
befell  a  thousand  miles  away.  Such  things,  which 
spell  a  different  kind  of  sensitiveness  from  that 
with  which  we  are  familiar,  have  happened  to 
people  well  known  to  me;  but  as  they  have  hap- 
pened to  others  also,  and  as  almost  every  town  or 
village  has  a  convincing  example  of  its  own,  I 

[49] 


How  Animals  Talk 


forbear  details  and  accept  the  fact,  and  try  here  to 
view  or  understand  it  as  a  natural  phenomenon. 

At  first  you  may  strongly  object  even  to  my 
premise,  calling  it  incredible  that  sense -bound 
mortals  should  feel  a  danger  that  their  eyes  can- 
not see  or  their  ears  hear;  but  there  are  at  least 
two  reasonable  answers  to  your  objection.  In  the 
first  place,  we  are  sense-bound  only  in  the  sense  of 
limiting  ourselves  unnecessarily,  confining  our  per- 
ception to  five  habitual  modes,  shamefully  neglect- 
ing to  cultivate  even  these,  and  ignoring  the  use 
or  the  existence  of  other  and  perhaps  finer  means 
of  contact  with  the  external  world.  Again,  it  is 
not  a  whit  more  incredible  that  sensitive  creatures, 
whether  brute  or  human,  should  feel  the  coming 
or  going  of  a  person  than  that  they  should  feel 
his  look  or  glance,  as  they  certainly  do. 

This  last  is  no  cloudy  theory;  it  is  a  plain  fact 
which  endures  the  test  of  observation.  Almost 
any  man  of  strong  personality  can  disturb  or 
awaken  a  sleeping  wild  animal  simply  by  looking 
at  him  intently;  and  the  nearer  the  man  is  the 
more  certain  the  effect  of  his  gaze  on  the  sleeping 
brute.  The  same  is  true  in  less  degree  of  most 
Indians  and  woodsmen,  and  of  many  sensitive 
women  and  children,  as  you  may  prove  for  your- 
self. Go  into  a  room  where  a  sensitive  or  "high- 
strung"  person  is  taking  a  nap — not  sleeping 

[50] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


heavily,  as  most  men  sleep,  but  lightly,  naturally, 
as  all  wild  animals  take  their  rest.  Make  no 
noise,  but  stand  or  sit  quietly  where  you  can  look 
intently  into  the  sleeper's  face;  and  commonly, 
by  a  change  of  position  or  a  turning  away  of  the 
head  or  a  startled  opening  of  the  eyes,  the  sleep- 
er will  show  that  he  feels  your  look  and  is  try- 
ing subconsciously  to  avoid  it.  The  awakening, 
whether  of  animals  or  of  men,  does  not  always 
follow  our  look,  most  fortunately,  b.ut  it  happens 
frequently  enough  under  varying  conditions  to 
put  the  explanation  of  chance  entirely  out  of 
the  question. 

When  I  was  a  child  I  used  to  sit  long  hours  in 
the  woods  alone,  partly  for  love  of  the  breathing 
solitude,  and  partly  for  getting  acquainted  with 
wild  birds  or  beasts,  which  showed  no  fear  of  me 
when  they  found  me  quiet.  At  such  times  I  often 
found  within  myself  an  impression  which  I  ex- 
pressed in  the  words,  "Something  is  watching 
you."  Again  and  again,  when  nothing  stirred  in 
my  sight,  that  curious  warning  would  come;  and 
almost  invariably,  on  looking  around,  I  would 
find  some  bird  or  fox  or  squirrel  which  had  probably 
caught  a  slight  motion  of  my  head  and  had  halted 
his  roaming  to  creep  near  and  watch  me  inquisi- 
tively. As  I  grew  older  the  "feel"  of  living  things 
grew  dimmer;  yet  many  times  in  later  years,  when 


How  Animals  Talk 


I  have  been  in  the  wilderness  alone,  I  have  ex- 
perienced the  same  impression  of  being  watched 
or  followed,  and  so  often  has  it  proved  a  true 
warning  that  I  still  trust  it  and  act  upon  it,  even 
when  my  eyes  see  nothing  unusual  and  my  ears 
hear  nothing  but  their  own  ringing  in  the  silence. 

I  remember  once,  when  I  was  sitting  on  the 
shore  of  a  lake  at  twilight,  that  I  began  to  have 
an  increasing  impression  that  some  living  thing 
unseen  was  near  me.  At  first  I  neglected  it,  for 
I  had  my  eyes  on  a  deer  that  interested  me  greatly; 
but  the  feeling  grew  stronger  till  I  obeyed  it  and 
rose  to  my  feet.  At  the  first  motion  came  a 
startling  woof!  and  from  some  bushes  close  behind 
me  a  bear  jumped  away  for  the  woods.  No  doubt 
he  had  been  there  some  time,  watching  me  or 
creeping  nearer,  knowing  that  I  was  alive,  but 
completely  puzzled  by  my  shapelessness  and  lack 
of  action.  A  similar  thing  has  happened  several 
times,  in  other  places  and  with  other  animals,  and 
always  at  a  moment  when  I  was  most  in  harmony 
with  the  environment  and  a  sharer  of  its  deep 
tranquillity.1 

As  a  child  this  faculty  (if  such  it  be)  was  as 
natural  as  anything  else  in  life;  for  in  childhood 
we  take  the  world  as  we  find  it  in  personal  ex- 
perience, and  nothing  is  especially  wonderful 

1  For  further  example  and  analysis  of  the  matter,  see  pp.  196-199. 

[52] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


where  all  is  wonder.  I  then  thought  no  more  of 
feeling  the  presence  of  an  animal  than  of  hearing 
him  walk  when  I  could  not  see  him;  but  as  I  grew 
older  the  experience  seemed  a  little  odd  or  "queer," 
and  I  never  spoke  of  it  to  any  one  till  I  discovered, 
first,  that  the  faculty  seems  to  be  common  among 
animals,  and  second,  that  some  Indians  (not  all) 
have  it  and  regard  it  as  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world.  Here  is  how  the  latter  discovery  came 
about : 

Simmo  and  I  were  calling  moose  from  a  lake 
one  moonlit  night,  with  a  silent  canoe  under  us, 
dark  evergreen  woods  at  our  back,  and  a  little 
ghost  of  a  beaver-meadow,  vague,  misty,  shadow- 
filled,  immediately  before  our  eyes  yet  seeming  as 
remote  as  any  drifting  cloud.  To  our  repeated 
call  no  answer  was  returned ;  then  we  allowed  the 
canoe  to  drift  ashore  where  it  would,  and  sat 
listening  to  the  vast  silence.  I  was  brought  back 
from  my  absorption  in  the  fragrance,  the  harmony, 
the  infinite  stillness  of  the  night  by  feeling  the 
canoe  shake  and  hearing  Simmo  whisper,  "Some- 
t'ing  near.  Look  out !" 

Now  in  a  silence  like  that,  the  tense,  living 
silence  of  the  wilderness  at  night,  one's  ears  are 
as  full  of  tricks  as  a  puckzvudgie,  who  is  one  of  the 
mischievous  fairy-folk  of  the  Indians.  The  whine 
of  a  mosquito  sounds  across  the  whole  lake;  or 

5  [S3] 


How  Animals  Talk 


the  mutter  of  a  frog  becomes  like  the  roar  of  a  bull 
of  Bashan;  or  suddenly  you  begin  to  hear  music 
as  the  faint  vibration  of  some  dry  stub,  purring 
in  the  unfelt  air  currents,  turns  to  the  booming  of 
a  mighty  church  organ.  At  such  a  time,  unless 
one  has  trained  his  senses  to  ignore  the  obvious 
(the  Indian  secret  of  seeing  and  hearing  things), 
one  soon  becomes  confused,  uncertain  of  the  bor- 
derland between  the  real  and  the  imaginary;  so 
presently  I  turned  to  Simmo  and  whispered,  "You 
hear  him?" 

The  Indian  shook  his  head.  "No  hear-um; 
just  feel-um,"  he  said;  and  again  we  settled  down 
to  watch.  For  several  minutes  we  questioned  the 
woods,  the  lake,  the  meadow;  but  nothing  stirred, 
not  a  sound  broke  the  painful  quiet,  the  while 
we  both  felt  strongly  that  some  living  thing  was 
near  us.  Then  a  shadow  moved  from  the  darker 
shadow  of  an  upturned  root,  only  a  few  yards  away, 
and  a  great  bull  stood  alert  on  the  open  shore. 

I  thought  then,  and  I  still  think,  that  besides  our 
ordinary  five  senses  we  have  a  finer  faculty  which 
I  must  call,  for  lack  of  a  better  term,  the  sense  of 
presence;  and  I  explain  it  on  the  assumption  that 
every  life  recognizes  and  attracts  every  other  life 
by  some  occult  force,  as  dead  matter  (if  there  be 
such  a  thing)  attracts  all  other  matter  by  the 
mysterious  force  of  gravitation.' 

[54] 


/t  shadow  moved  from  the  darker  shadow  of  an  upturned  root — and 
•**•  a  great  buck  stood  alert  on  the  open  shore. 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


Doubtless  I  have  been  many  times  watched  in 
the  woods  when  I  did  not  know  or  feel  it;  and 
certainly  I  have  often  had  my  eyes  upon  an  un- 
conscious bird  or  beast  when,  though  I  fancied  he 
grew  uneasy  under  my  scrutiny,  he  did  not  have 
enough  sense  of  danger  to  run  away — possibly 
because  no  real  danger  threatened  him,  the  eyes 
that  looked  upon  him  being  friendly  or  merely 
curious. 

Once  on  a  hardwood  ridge  I  came  upon  a  buck 
lying  asleep  in  open  timber,  and  stood  with  my 
back  against  a  great  sugar-maple,  observing  him 
for  five  or  six  minutes  before  he  stirred.  No,  I 
was  not  trying  to  awaken  him  by  a  look,  or  to 
stage  any  other  experiment.  I  was  simply  enjoy- 
ing a  rare  sight,  noting  with  immense  interest  that 
this  wild  creature,  whom  I  had  always  seen  so 
splendidly  alert,  could  nod  and  blink  like  any 
ordinary  mortal.  So  near  was  he  that  I  could 
mark  the  drowsiness  of  his  eyes,  the  position  of 
his  feet,  the  swelling  of  his  sides  as  he  breathed.  I 
happened  to  be  counting  his  respirations  in  friendly 
fashion,  comparing  them  with  my  own,  when  sud- 
denly his  head  turned  to  me;  his  eyes  snapped 
wide  open,  and  they  were  looking  straight  into 
mine.  Apparently  his  feeling  or  subconscious  per- 
ception had  warned  him  where  danger  was;  but 
still  his  eyes  could  not  recognize  it,  standing  there 

[55] 


How  Animals  Talk 


in  plain  sight.  For  to  stand  motionless  without 
concealment  is  often  the  best  way  to  deceive  a 
wild  animal,  which  habitually  associates  life  with 
motion. 

No  more  drowsiness  for  that  buck!  He  was 
startled,  plainly  enough;  but  he  rose  to  his  feet 
very  stealthily,  not  stirring  a  leaf,  and  stood  at 
tense  attention.  When  he  turned  his  head  to 
look  over  his  shoulder  behind  him  I  raised  my 
field-glass,  for  I  wanted  to  read  his  thought,  if 
possible,  in  his  eyes.  As  he  turned  his  gaze  my 
way  again  his  nose  seemed  to  sweep  my  face.  It 
rested  there  a  moment  full  on  the  lens  of  my  glass, 
moved  on,  and  returned  for  a  longer  inspection. 
Then  he  glided  past,  still  without  recognizing  me, 
testing  the  air  at  every  springy  step,  harking  this 
way,  looking  that  way,  and  disappearing  at  last 
as  if  he  trod  on  eggs. 

From  such  experiences  I  judge  that  the  feeling 
of  unsensed  danger,  or  the  more  subtle  feel  of  a 
living  thing,  is  as  variable  in  the  animals  as  are 
their  instincts  or  their  social  habits.  It  may  be 
dull  in  one  creature  and  keen  in  another  of  the 
same  species,  or  alternately  awake  and  asleep  in 
the  same  creature;  but  there  is  no  longer  any 
doubt  in  my  mind  that  it  is  a  widespread  gift 
among  birds  and  beasts.  When  it  appears  occa- 
sionally among  men,  therefore,  it  is  to  be  regarded 

[561 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


not  as  uncanny  or  queer,  but,  like  the  sure  sense  of 
direction  which  a  few  men  possess,  as  a  precious 
and  perfectly  natural  inheritance  from  our  primi- 
tive ancestors.  That  it  skips  a  dozen  generations 
to  alight  on  an  odd  man  here  or  there,  like  a 
storm-driven  bird  on  a  ship  at  sea,  is  precisely 
what  we  might  expect  of  heredity,  which  follows  a 
course  that  seems  to  us  erratic  or  at  times  marvel- 
ous, as  geometry  appears  to  an  Eskimo,  because 
we  do  not  yet  understand  its  law  or  working 
principle. 

Among  savage  tribes,  who  live  a  natural  out- 
door life  in  close  contact  with  nature,  the  percep- 
tion of  danger  or  of  persons  beyond  the  ordinary 
sense  range  is  much  more  common  than  among 
civilized  folk.  Almost  every  explorer  and  mis- 
sionary who  has  spent  much  time  with  African 
natives,  for  example,  has  noticed  that  the  Blacks 
have  some  mysterious  means  of  knowing  when  a 
stranger  is  approaching  one  of  their  villages — 
mysterious,  that  is,  because  it  does  not  depend 
on  runners  or  messengers  or  any  other  of  our 
habitual  means  of  communication.  A  recent  ob- 
server of  these  people  has  at  last  offered  an  ex- 
planation of  the  matter,  with  many  other  impres- 
sions of  native  philosophy,  in  a  work  to  which  he 
gives  the  suggestive  title  of  Thinking  Black.  Of 
the  scores  of  books  on  Africa  which  I  have  read, 

[571 


How  Animals  Talk 


this  is  the  only  one  to  show  more  than  a  very 
superficial  knowledge  of  the  natives,  and  the 
reason  is  apparent.  The  author  thinks,  most 
reasonably,  that  you  cannot  possibly  know  the 
native  or  understand  his  customs  until  you  know 
his  thought,  and  that  the  only  trail  to  his  thought 
is  through  the  language  in  which  the  thought  is 
expressed.  Therefore  did  he  study  the  speech  as  a 
means  of  knowing  the  man;  and  herein  he  is  in 
refreshing  contrast  to  other  African  travelers  and 
hunters  I  have  read,  who  spend  a  few  months  or 
weeks  in  a  white  man's  camp,  knowing  the  natives 
about  as  intimately  as  lovers  know  the  moon,  and 
then  babble  of  native  customs  or  beliefs  or  "super- 
stitions,"— as  if  any  rite  or  habit  could  be  under- 
stood without  first  understanding  the  philosophy 
of  life  from  which  it  sprang,  as  a  flower  from  a 
hidden  seed. 

This  rare  observer,  who  knows  how  the  native 
thinks  because  he  perfectly  understands  the  na- 
tive language,  tells  us1  that  the  Blacks  clearly 
recognize  the  power  of  animals  and  of  normal 
men  to  know  many  things  beyond  their  sense 
range;  that  they  give  it  a  definite  name,  and 
explain  it  in  a  way  which  indicates  an  astonishing 
degree  of  abstract  thought  on  the  part  of  those 
whom  we  ignorantly  call  unthinking  savages. 

Crawford,  Thinking  Black  (1904). 
[58] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


According  to  these  natives,  every  natural  animal, 
man  included,  has  the  physical  gifts  of  touch, 
sight,  hearing,  taste,  smell,  and  chumfo.  I  must 
still  use  the  native  term  because  it  cannot  be 
translated,  because  it  implies  all  that  we  mean  by 
instinct,  intuitive  or  absolute  knowledge  and  (a 
thing  which  no  other  psychology  has  even  hint- 
ed at)  the  process  by  which  such  knowledge  is 
acquired. 

This  chumfo  is  not  a  sixth  or  extra  sense,  as  we 
assume,  but  rather  the  unity  or  perfect  co-ordina- 
tion of  the  five  senses  at  their  highest  point.  I 
may  illustrate  the  matter  this  way,  still  following 
Crawford,  whose  record  contains  many  curious 
bits  of  observation,  savage  philosophy,  woods  lore 
and  animal  lore,  many  of  them  written  by  the 
camp-fire  and  all  jumbled  together  pell-mell: 

For  ordinary  perception  at  near  distances  the 
eye  or  the  ear  is  sufficient,  and  while  engaged  in 
any  near  or  obvious  matter  the  five  senses  work 
independently,  each  busy  with  its  own  function. 
But  when  such  observation  is  ended  or  at  fault, 
and  the  man  retreats,  as  it  were,  into  his  inner  self, 
then  in  the  quiet  all  the  senses  merge  and  harmo- 
nize into  a  single  perfect  instrument  of  perception. 
(Here,  in  native  dress,  is  nothing  more  or  less  than 
the  psychologist's  subconscious  self,  with  its  mys- 
terious working.)  At  such  moments  the  whole 

[59] 


How  Animals  Talk 


animal  or  the  whole  man,  not  his  brain  and  senses 
alone,  becomes  sensitive  to  the  most  delicate  im- 
pressions, to  inaudible  sounds  or  vibrations,  to 
unseen  colors,  to  unsmelled  odors  or  intangible 
qualities, — to  a  multitude  of  subtle  messages  from 
the  external  world,  which  are  ordinarily  unnoticed 
because  the  senses  are  ordinarily  separate,  each 
occupied  with  its  particular  message.  So  when 
a  sleeping  animal  is  suddenly  aware  that  he  must 
be  alert,  he  does  not  learn  of  approaching  danger 
through  his  ears  or  nose,  but  through  chumfo, 
through  the  perfect  co-ordination  of  all  his  senses 
working  together  as  one.  In  the  same  way  a 
wandering  black  man  always  knows  where  his  hut 
or  camp  is;  he  holds  his  course  on  the  darkest 
night,  finds  his  way  through  a  vast  jungle,  goes 
back  to  any  spot  in  it  where  he  left  something,  and 
often  astonishes  African  travelers  by  getting  wind 
of  their  doings  while  they  are  yet  far  distant. 

Such  is  the  native  philosophy;  and  the  striking 
feature  of  it  is,  that  it  is  not  superstitious  but 
keenly  observant,  not  ignorant  but  rational  and 
scientific,  since  it  seems  to  anticipate  our  latest 
biological  discoveries,  or  rather,  as  we  shall  see, 
a  philosophy  which  rests  upon  biological  science 
as  a  foundation. 

Perhaps  the  first  suggestion  that  the  native  may 
have  reason  in  his  theory  comes  from  the  extraor- 

[60] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


dinary  sensitiveness  of  certain  blind  people,  who 
walk  confidently  about  a  cluttered  room,  or  who 
sort  the  family  linen  after  it  returns  from  the 
laundry.  These  blind  people  say,  and  think,  that 
they  avoid  objects  by  feeling  the  increasing  air 
pressure  as  they  approach,  or  that  they  sort  the 
family  linen  by  smell;  but  it  appears  more  likely 
that  a  greater  unity  and  refinement  of  all  their 
senses  results  from  their  living  in  darkness. 

That  our  human  senses  have  unused  possibili- 
ties, or  that  we  may  possibly  possess  extra  senses 
of  which  we  are  not  conscious,  may  appear  if  you 
study  the  phenomenon  of  hearing,  especially  if  you 
study  it  when  you  hear  a  strange  sound  in  the 
woods  or  in  the  house  at  night.  It  is  assumed  that 
we  always  locate  a  sound  by  the  ear,  and  that  we 
determine  its  volume  or  distance  by  our  judgment 
from  previous  experiences;  but  that,  I  think,  is  a 
secondary  and  not  a  primary  process.  When  we 
act  most  naturally  we  seem  to  locate  a  sound  not 
by  search  or  experiment,  but  instantly,  instinc- 
tively, absolutely;  and  then  by  our  ear  or  our 
judgment  we  strive  to  verify  our  first  chumfo 
impression. 

As  a  specific  instance,  you  are  lying  half  asleep 
at  night  when  a  faint,  strange  sound  breaks  in 
upon  your  consciousness.  If  you  act  naturally 
now,  you  will  nine  times  out  of  ten  locate  the  sound 

[61] 


How  Animals  Talk 


on  the  instant,  without  bringing  your  "good  ear" 
to  bear  upon  it;  but  if  you  neglect  or  lose  your 
first  impression,  you  may  hunt  for  an  hour  and  go 
back  to  bed  without  finding  the  source  of  the  dis- 
turbance. Or  you  are  traveling  along  a  lonely  lane 
at  night,  more  alive  than  you  commonly  are,  when 
a  sudden  cry  breaks  out  of  the  darkness.  It  lasts 
but  a  fraction  of  a  second  and  is  gone ;  yet  in  that 
fleeting  instant  you  have  learned  three  things :  you 
know  the  direction  of  the  cry;  you  know,  though 
you  never  heard  it  before,  whether  it  is  a  loud 
cry  from  a  distance  or  a  faint  cry  from  near  at 
hand;  and  you  are  so  sure  of  its  exact  location 
that  you  go  to  a  certain  spot,  whether  near  or  far, 
and  say,  "That  cry  sounded  here." 

So  much  if  you  act  naturally ;  but  if  you  depend 
on  your  ears  or  judgment,  as  men  are  apt  to  do, 
then  you  are  in  for  a  long  chase  before  you  locate 
the  cry  of  a  bird  or  a  beast  or  a  lost  child  in  the 
night. 

It  is  easy  to  make  mistakes  here,  for  we  are  so 
cumbered  by  artificial  habits  that  it  is  difficult  to 
follow  any  purely  natural  process;  but  our  trail 
becomes  clearer  when  we  study  the  matter  of 
hearing  among  the  brutes.  Thus,  your  dog  is  lying 
asleep  by  the  fire  when  a  faint  noise  or  footstep 
sounds  outside.  Sometimes,  indeed,  there  is  no 
audible  sound  at  all  when  he  springs  to  his  feet; 

[62] 


Chumfo  y  the  Super-sense 


but  no  sooner  is  the  door  opened  for  him  than  he  is 
around  the  house  and  away,  heading  as  straight 
for  the  disturbance  as  if  he  knew,  as  he  probably 
does,  exactly  where  to  find  it.  Yet  your  dog  is, 
I  repeat,  a  very  dull  creature  in  comparison  with 
his  wild  kindred.  Their  ability  to  locate  a  sound 
is  almost  unbelievable,  not  because  they  have  more 
delicate  ears  (for  the  human  ear  is  much  finer,  being 
sensitive  to  a  thousand  inflections,  tones,  harmonies, 
which  are  meaningless  to  the  brute),  but  because 
of  what  the  Blacks  call  their  better  chumfo  or  what 
we  thoughtlessly  call  their  stronger  instincts. 

This  has  been  strongly  impressed  upon  me  at 
times  when  I  have  tried  to  call  a  moose  in  the 
wilderness.  If  you  seek  these  animals  far  back 
where  they  are  never  hunted — a  difficult  matter 
nowadays — the  bulls  answer  readily  enough,  or 
sometimes  too  readily,  as  when  one  big  brute 
chased  me  to  my  canoe  and  gave  me  a  hatless  run 
for  it ;  but  in  a  much-hunted  region  they  are  very 
shy  and  come  warily  to  a  call.  The  best  way  to 
see  them  in  such  a  place  is  to  call  a  few  times 
at  night,  or  until  you  get  an  answer,  and  then  go 
quickly  away  before  the  bull  comes  near  enough 
to  begin  circling  suspiciously.  At  daybreak  you 
are  very  apt  to  find  him  waiting;  and  the  aston- 
ishing thing  is  that  he  is  waiting  at  the  very  spot 
where  you  used  your  trumpet. 

[63] 


How  Animals  Talk 


The  place  you  select  for  calling  may  be  a  tiny 
bog  in  a  vast  forest,  or  a  little,  nameless  beaver- 
meadow  by  a  lake  or  river.  It  is  like  many  other 
such  places,  near  or  far,  and  the  bull  may  come 
from  a  distance,  crossing  lakes,  rivers,  bogs  and 
dense  forest  on  his  way;  but  he  never  seems  to 
make  a  mistake  or  to  be  at  a  loss  in  locating  the 
call.  On  a  still  night  I  have  heard  a  bull  answer 
me  from  a  mountain  five  or  six  miles  away;  yet 
in  the  morning  there  he  was,  waiting  expectantly 
for  his  mate  near  the  bit  of  open  shore  where  I 
had  called  him;  and  to  reach  that  spot  he  must 
either  have  crossed  the  lake  by  swimming,  a  dis- 
tance of  two  miles,  or  else  have  circled  it  on  a 
wide  detour.  That  he  should  come  such  a  dis- 
tance through  woods  and  waters,  and  pick  the 
right  spot  from  a  hundred  others  on  either  side, 
seems  to  me  not  a  matter  of  ears  or  experience 
but  of  chumfo,  or  absolute  knowledge. 

Another  and  more  interesting  verification  of  the 
chumfo  philosophy  is  open  to  any  man  who  will 
go  quietly  through  the  big  woods  by  moonlight, 
putting  himself  back  amid  primal  or  animal  con- 
ditions, and  observing  himself  closely  as  he  does  so. 
The  man  who  has  not  traveled  the  wilderness  alone 
at  night  has  a  vivid  and  illuminating  experience 
awaiting  him.  He  is  amazed,  so  soon  as  he  over- 
comes the  first  unnatural  feeling  of  fear,  to  find 

[64] 


y  the  Super-sense 


how  alive  he  is,  and  h'ow  much  better  he  can 
hear  and  smell  than  ever  he  dreamed.  At  such 
a  time  one's  whole  body  seems  to  become  a  deli- 
cately poised  instrument  for  receiving  sense  im- 
pressions, and  one's  skin  especially  begins  to  tingle 
and  creep  as  it  wakes  from  its  long  sleep.  Nor  is 
this  "creeping"  of  the  skin  strange  or  queer,  as 
we  assume,  but  perfectly  natural.  The  sensations 
which  we  now  ignorantly  associate  with  fear  of  the 
dark  (a  late  and  purely  human  development;  the 
animal  knows  it  not)  are  in  reality  the  sensations 
of  awakening  life. 

Possibly  we  may  explain  this  supersensitiveness 
of  the  skin,  when  life  awakens  in  it  once  more  and 
it  becomes  for  us  another  and  finer  instrument  of 
perception,  by  the  simple  biological  fact  that  every 
cell  of  the  multitudes  which  make  up  the  human 
body  has  a  more  or  less  complete  organization 
within  itself.  Moreover,  as  late  experiments  have 
shown,  a  cell  or  a  tissue  of  cells  will  live  and  pros- 
per in  a  suitable  environment  when  completely 
separated  from  the  body  of  which  it  was  once  a 
part.  These  human  cells  inherit  certain  charac- 
teristics common  to  all  animal  cells  since  life 
began;  and  it  is  not  improbable  that  they  inherit 
also  something  of  the  primal  cell's  sensibility,  or 
capacity  to  receive  impressions  from  the  external 
world.  This  universal  cell-function  was  largely 

[65! 


How  Animals  Talk 


given  over  when  the  animal  (a  collection  of  cells) 
began  to  develop  special  organs  of  touch,  sight, 
and  hearing;  but  there  is  no  indication  that  the 
original  power  of  sensibility  has  ever  been  wholly 
destroyed  in  any  cell.  It  is,  therefore,  still  within 
the  range  of  biological  possibility  that  a  man 
should  hear  with  his  fingers  or  smell  with  his  toes, 
since  every  cell  of  both  finger  and  toe  once  did  a 
work  corresponding  to  the  present  functions  of  the 
five  animal  senses. 

Before  you  dismiss  this  as  an  idle  or  impossible 
theory,  try  a  simple  experiment,  which  may  open 
your  eyes  to  the  reality  of  living  things.  Go  to  a 
greenhouse  and  select  a  spot  of  bare  earth  under 
a  growing  rose-bush.  Examine  the  surface  care- 
fully, then  brush  and  examine  it  again,  to  be  sure 
that  not  a  root  of  any  kind  is  present.  Now 
place  a  handful  of  good  plant-food  on  the  selected 
spot,  and  go  away  to  your  own  affairs.  Return 
in  a  week  or  so,  brush  aside  your  "bait,"  and  there 
before  your  eyes  is  a  mass  of  white  feeding-roots 
where  no  root  was  before.  In  some  way,  deep 
under  the  soil,  the  hungry  cells  have  heard  or 
smelled  or  felt  a  rumor  of  food,  and  have  headed 
for  it  as  surely  as  a  dog  follows  his  nose  to  his 
dinner. 

Do  plants,  then,  know  what  they  do  when  they 
turn  to  the  light,  and  is  there  something  like  con- 

[66] 


Ckwnfo,  the  Super-sense 


sciousness  in  a  tree  or  a  blade  of  grass  ?  That  is 
too  much  to  assert,  though  one  may  think  or 
believe  so.  No  man  can  answer  the  question 
which  occurs  so  constantly  to  one  who  lives  among 
growing  things;  but  you  can  hardly  leave  your 
simple  experiment  without  formulating  a  theory 
that  even  the  hidden  rootlets  of  a  rose-bush  have 
something  fundamentally  akin  to  our  highly  de- 
veloped sensibility.  At  present  some  biologists 
are  beginning  to  assert,  and  confidently,  though  it 
is  but  an  opinion,  that  there  is  no  dead  matter  in 
the  world;  that  the  ultimate  particles  of  which 
matter  is  composed  are  all  intensely  alive.  And  if 
alive,  they  must  be  sentient;  that  is,  each  must 
have  an  infinitesimal  degree  of  feeling  or  sense 
perception. 

To  return  from  our  speculation,  and  to  illustrate 
the  chumfo  faculty  from  human  and  animal  ex- 
perience: I  was  once  sitting  idly  on  a  Nantucket 
wharf,  alternately  watching  some  hermit-crabs 
scurrying  about  in  their  erratic  fashion  under  the 
tide,  and  an  old  dog  that  lay  soaking  himself  in 
the  warm  sunshine.  Just  behind  us,  the  only  in- 
harmonious creatures  in  the  peaceful  scene,  some 
laborers  were  unloading  rocks  from  a  barge  by  the 
aid  of  a  derrick.  For  more  than  an  hour,  or  ever 
since  I  came  to  the  wharf,  the  dog  lay  in  the  same 

[67] 


How  Animals  Talk 


spot,  and  in  all  that  time  I  did  not  see  him  move 
a  muscle.  He  was  apparently  sound  asleep.  Sud- 
denly he  heaved  up  on  his  rheumatic  legs,  sniffed 
the  air  alertly,  and  turned  his  head  this  way,  that 
way,  as  if  wary  of  something. 

The  human  labor  had  proceeded  lazily,  for  the 
day  was  warm ;  there  was  no  change  in  the  environ- 
ment, so  far  as  I  could  discern ;  the  only  sounds  in 
the  air  were  the  sleepy  lap  of  wavelets  and  the 
creaking  of  pulleys ;  yet  my  instant  thought  was, 
"That  dog  is  frightened;  but  at  what?"  After 
a  few  moments  of  watching  he  moved  off  a  dozen 
yards  and  threw  himself  flat  on  his  side  to  sleep 
again.  His  body  was  hardly  relaxed  when  a 
guy-rope  parted,  and  the  iron-bound  mast  of  the 
derrick  crashed  down  on  the  wharf. 

It  was  certainly  "touch  and  go"  for  me;  I  felt 
the  wind  of  the  thing  as  it  fell,  and  was  almost 
knocked  off  the  wharf;  but  I  was  not  thinking 
then  of  my  own  close  call.  With  my  interest  at 
high  pitch  I  examined  the  mast,  and  found  it 
lying  squarely  athwart  the  impression  left  by  the 
dog  in  the  dust  of  the  road. 

"Merely  a  coincidence,"  you  say;  which  in- 
dicates that  we  are  apt  to  think  alike  and  in  set 
formulas.  That  is  precisely  what  I  .said  at  the 
time — a  mere  coincidence,  but  a  startling  one, 
which  made  me  think  of  luck  (a  most  foolish  no- 

[68] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


tion)  and  wonder  why  luck  should  elect  to  light 
on  a  worthless  old  dog  and  take  no  heed  of  what 
seemed  to  me  then  a  precious  young  man.  But  I 
have  since  changed  my  mind;  and  here  is  one  of 
the  many  observations  which  made  me  change  it. 

Years  afterward  my  Indian  guide,  Simmo,  was 
camped  with  a  white  man  beside  a  salmon  river. 
It  was  a  rough  night,  and  a  storm  was  roaring 
over  the  big  woods.  For  shelter  they  had  built  a 
bark  commoosie,  and  for  comfort  a  fire  of  birch 
logs.  At  about  nine  o'clock  they  turned  in,  each 
wrapped  in  his  blanket,  and  slept  soundly  but 
lightly,  as  woodsmen  do,  after  a  long  day  on  the 
trail.  Some  time  later — hours,  probably,  for  the 
fire  was  low,  the  storm  hushed,  the  world  intensely 
still — the  white  man  was  awakened  by  a  touch, 
and  opened  his  eyes  to  find  his  companion  in  a 
tense,  listening  attitude. 

"Bes'  get  out  of  here  quick,  'fore  somet'ing 
come,"  said  the  Indian,  and  threw  off  his  blanket. 

"But  why — what — how  do  you  know?"  queried 
the  white  man,  startled  but  doubting,  for  he  had 
listened  and  heard  nothing. 

The  Indian,  angered  as  an  Indian  of  the  woods 
always  is  when  you  question  or  challenge  his  craft, 
made  an  impatient  gesture.  "Don'  know  how; 
don'  know  why;  just  know.  Come!"  he  called 
sharply,  and  the  white  man  followed  him  away 
6  [69] 


How  Animals  Talk 


from  the  camp  toward  the  river,  where  it  was 
lighter.  For  several  minutes  they  stood  there, 
like  two  alert  animals,  searching  the  dark  woods 
with  all  their  senses;  but  nothing  moved.  The 
white  man  was  beginning  another  fool  question 
when  there  came  a  sudden  dull  crack,  a  booming 
of  air,  as  a  huge  yellow-birch  stub  toppled  over  the 
fire  and  flattened  the  commoosie  like  a  bubble. 

"Dere!  Das  de  feller  mus'  be  comin',"  said 
Simmo.  "By  cosh,  now,  nex'  time  Injun  tell  you 
one  t'ing,  pYaps  you  believe-um!"  And,  as  if  it 
were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  he 
stepped  over  death-and-destruction,  kicked  aside 
some  rubbish,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  where  he  was 
before. 

"How  do  I  explain  it?"  I  don't.  I  simply 
recognize  a  fact  which  I  cannot  explain,  and  which 
I  will  not  blink  by  calling  it  another  coincidence. 
For  the  fact  is,  as  I  judge,  that  a  few  men  and  many 
animals  exercise  some  extra  faculty  which  I  do 
not  or  cannot  exercise,  or  have  access  to  some 
source  of  information  which  is  closed  to  me. 
When  I  question  the  gifted  men  or  women  who 
possess  this  faculty,  or  what's-its-name,  I  find 
that  they  are  as  much  in  the  dark  about  it  as  I  am. 
They  know  certain  things  without  knowing  how 
they  learn;  and  the  only  word  of  explanation  they 
offer  is  that  they  "feel"  thus  and  so — perhaps  as 

[70] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


a  horse  feels  when  he  is  holding  the  right  direction 
through  a  blinding  snowstorm,  as  he  does  hold 
it,  steadily,  surely,  if  you  are  wise  enough  not  to 
bother  him  with  the  reins  or  your  opinions. 

Simmo  is  one  of  these  rare  men.  At  one  moment 
he  is  a  mere  child,  so  guileless,  so  natural,  so  in- 
nocent of  worldly  wisdom,  that  he  is  forever  sur- 
prising you.  Once  when  his  pipe  was  lost  I  saw 
him  fill  an  imaginary  bowl,  scratch  an  imaginary 
match,  and  puff  away  with  a  look  of  heavenly 
content  on  his  weathered  face.  So  you  treat  him 
as  an  unspoiled  creature,  humoring  him,  till  there 
is  difficulty  or  danger  ahead,  or  a  man's  work  to 
be  done,  when  he  steps  quietly  to  the  front  as  if 
he  belonged  there.  Or  you  may  be  talking  with 
him  by  the  camp-fire,  elaborating  some  wise  theory, 
when  he  brushes  aside  your  book  knowledge  as  of 
no  consequence  and  suddenly  becomes  a  philos- 
opher, proclaiming  a  new  or  startling  doctrine  of 
life  in  the  sublimely  unhampered  way  of  Emerson, 
who  finished  off  objectors  by  saying,  "I  do  not 
argue;  I  know."  But  where  Emerson  gives  you  a 
mystical  word  or  a  bare  assertion  which  he  cannot 
possibly  prove,  Simmo  has  a  disconcerting  way  of 
establishing  a  challenged  doctrine  by  a  concrete 
and  undeniable  fact. 

One  misty  day  when  we  were  astray  in  the  wil- 
derness, he  and  I,  we  attempted  to  travel  by  get- 

[71] 


How  Animals  Talk 


ting  our  compass  bearings  from  the  topmost  twigs 
of  the  evergreens,  which  slant  mostly  in  one  direc- 
tion. After  blundering  around  for  a  time  without 
getting  any  nearer  camp  or  familiar  landmarks, 
Simmo  remarked:  "Dese  twigs  lie  like  devil.  I 
guess  I  bes'  find-urn  way  myself."  And  he  did 
find  it,  and  hold  it  even  after  darkness  fell,  by 
instinctive  feeling.  At  least,  I  judge  it  to  have 
been  a  matter  of  feeling  rather  than  of  sense  or 
observation,  for  his  only  explanation  was,  "Oh, 
w'en  I  goin'  right  I  feel  good;  but  w'en  I  goin' 
wrong  I  oneasy." 

This  natural  feeling  or  impression  of  things  be- 
yond the  range  of  sight,  this  extra  sense,  or  churnfo 
unity  of  all  the  senses,  is  probably  akin  to  another 
feeling  by  which  the  animal  or  man  becomes 
aware  of  distant  persons,  or  of  distant  moods  or 
emotions.  The  sleeping  dog's  alarm  beneath  the 
weakened  derrick,  or  the  sleeping  Indian's  uneasi- 
ness near  the  doomed  birch-stub,  might  be  ex- 
plained on  purely  physical  grounds:  some  tremor 
of  parting  fibers,  some  warning  vibration  too  faint 
for  eardrums  but  heavy  enough  to  shake  a  more 
delicately  poised  nerve  center,  reached  the  inner 
beast  or  the  inner  man  and  roused  him  to  impend- 
ing danger.  (There  is  a  deal  of  babble  in  this 
explanation,  I  admit,  and  still  a  mystery  at  the 
end  of  it.)  But  when  a  man  or  a  brute  receives 

[72] 


Chumfo,  the  Super-sense 


knowledge  not  of  matter,  but  of  minds  or  spirits 
like  his  own;  when  a  mother  knows,  for  example, 
the  mental  state  of  a  son  who  is  far  away,  and 
when  no  material  vibrations  of  any  known  medium 
can  pass  between  them, — then  all  sixth-sense  theo- 
ries, which  must  rest  on  the  impinging  of  waves 
upon  nerve  centers,  no  longer  satisfy  or  explain. 
We  are  in  the  more  shadowy  region  of  thought 
transference  or  impulse  transference,  and  it  is  in 
this  silent,  unexplored  region  that,  as  I  now  be- 
lieve, a  large  part  of  animal  communication  goes 
on  continually. 

That  belief  will  grow  more  clear,  and  perhaps 
more  reasonable,  if  you  follow  this  unblazed  trail 
a  little  farther. 


IV 


THE  way  of  animal  communication  now  grows 
dimmer  and  dimmer,  or  some  readers  may 
even  think  it  "curiouser  and  curiouser,"  as  Alice 
of  Wonderland  said  when  she  found  herself  length- 
ening out  like  a  telescope.  But  there  is  certainly 
a  trail  of  some  kind  ahead,  and  since  we  are  apt  to 
lose  it  or  to  wander  apart,  let  us  agree,  if  we  can, 
upon  some  familiar  fact  or  experience  which  may 
serve  as  a  guiding  landmark.  Our  general  course 
will  be  as  follows:  first,  to  define  our  subject,  or 
rather,  to  make  its  meaning  clear  by  illustration; 
second,  to  examine  the  reasonableness  of  telepathy 
from  a  natural  or  biological  viewpoint ;  and  finally, 
to  go  afield  with  eyes  and  minds  open  to  see  what 

[74] 


Natural  Telepathy 


the  birds  or  the  beasts  may  teach  us  of  this  interest- 
ing matter. 

It  seems  to  be  fairly  well  established  that  a  few 
men  and  women  of  uncommonly  fine  nervous  or- 
ganization (which  means  an  uncommonly  natural 
or  healthy  organization)  have  the  power  of  in- 
fluencing the  mind  of  another  person  at  a  distance ; 
and  this  rare  power  goes  by  the  name  of  thought 
transference,  or  telepathy.  The  so-called  crossing 
of  letters,  when  two  widely  separated  persons  sit 
down  at  the  same  hour  to  write  each  other  on  the 
same  subject,  is  the  most  familiar  but  not  the 
most  convincing  example  of  the  thing.  Yes,  I 
know  the  power  and  the  example  are  both  chal- 
lenged, since  there  are  scientists  who  deny  tel- 
epathy root  and  branch,  as  well  as  scientists  who 
believe  in  it  implicitly;  but  I  also  know  some- 
thing more  convincing  than  any  second-hand 
denial  or  belief,  having  at  different  times  met 
three  persons  who  used  the  "gift"  so  freely,  and 
for  the  most  part  so  surely,  that  to  ignore  it  would 
be  to  abandon  confidence  in  my  own  sense  and 
judgment.  I  am  not  trying,  therefore,  to  inves- 
tigate an  opinion,  but  to  understand  a  fact. 

To  illustrate  the  matter  by  a  personal  experi- 
ence: For  many  years  after  I  first  left  home  my 
mother  would  become  "uneasy  in  her  mind,"  as 
she  expressed  it,  whenever  a  slight  accident  or 

[751 


How  Animals  Talk 


danger  or  sickness  had  befallen  me.  If  the  event 
were  to  me  serious  or  threatening,  there  was  no 
more  doubt  or  uneasiness  on  my  mother's  part. 
She  would  know  within  the  hour  that  I  was  in 
trouble  of  some  kind,  and  would  write  or  telegraph 
to  ask  what  was  the  matter. 

It  is  commonly  assumed  that  any  such  power 
must  be  a  little  weird  or  uncanny;  that  it  con- 
tradicts the  wholesome  experience  of  humanity  or 
makes  fantastic  addition  to  its  natural  faculties; 
and  I  confess  that  the  general  queerness,  the  lack 
of  balance,  the  Hottentotish  credulity  of  folk  who 
dabble  in  occult  matters  give  some  human,  if  not 
reasonable,  grounds  for  the  assumption.  Never- 
theless, I  judge  that  telepathy  is  of  itself  wholly 
natural;  that  it  is  a  survival,  an  age-old  inheri- 
tance rather  than  a  new  invention  or  discovery; 
that  it  might  be  exercised  not  by  a  few  astonishing 
individuals,  but  by  any  normal  man  or  woman 
who  should  from  infancy  cultivate  certain  mental 
powers  which  we  now  habitually  neglect.  I  am 
led  to  this  conviction  because  I  have  found  some- 
thing that  very  much  resembles  telepathy  in  fre- 
quent use  throughout  the  entire  animal  kingdom. 
It  is,  as  I  think  and  shall  try  to  make  clear,  a 
natural  gift  or  faculty  of  the  animal  mind,  which  is 
largely  subconscious,  and  it  is  from  the  animal 
mind  that  we  inherit  it;  just  as  a  few  woodsmen 


Natural  Telepathy 


inherit  the  animal  sense  of  direction,  and  cultivate 
and  trust  it  till  they  are  sure  of  their  way  in  any 
wilderness,  while  the  large  majority  of  men,  dulled 
by  artificial  habit,  go  promptly  astray  whenever 
they  venture  beyond  beaten  trails. 

That  the  animals  inherit  this  power  of  silent  com- 
munication over  great  distances  is  occasionally 
manifest  even  among  our  half-natural  domestic 
creatures.  For  example,  that  same  old  setter  of 
mine,  Don,  who  introduced  us  to  our  fascinating 
subject,  was  left  behind  most  unwillingly  during 
my  terms  at  school ;  but  he  always  seemed  to  know 
when  I  was  on  my  way  home.  For  months  at  a 
stretch  he  would  stay  about  the  house,  obeying 
my  mother  perfectly,  though  she  never  liked  a 
dog;  but  on  the  day  I  was  expected  he  would 
leave  the  premises,  paying  no  heed  to  orders,  and 
go  to  a  commanding  ledge  beside  the  lane,  where 
he  could  overlook  the  highroad.  Whatever  the 
hour  of  my  coming,  whether  noon  or  midnight, 
there  I  would  find  him  waiting. 

Once  when  I  was  homeward  bound  unexpectedly, 
having  sent  no  word  of  my  coming,  my  mother 
missed  Don  and  called  him  in  vain.  Some  hours 
later,  when  he  did  not  return  at  his  dinner-time 
or  answer  her  repeated  call,  she  searched  for  him 
and  found  him  camped  expectantly  in  the  lane. 
"Oho!  wise  dog,"  said  she.  "I  understand  now. 

[771 


How  Animals  Talk 


Your  master  is  coming  home."  And  without  a 
doubt  that  it  would  soon  be  needed,  she  went  and 
made  my  room  ready. 

If  the  dog  had  been  accustomed  to  spend  his 
loafing-time  in  the  lane,  one  might  thoughtlessly 
account  for  his  action  by  the  accident  or  hit-or- 
miss  theory;  but  he  was  never  seen  to  wait  there 
for  any  length  of  time  except  on  the  days  when  I 
was  expected.  And  once  (unhappily  the  last  time 
Don  ever  came  to  meet  his  master)  he  was  ob- 
served to  take  up  his  watch  within  a  few  minutes 
of  the  hour  when  my  train  left  the  distant  town. 
Apparently  he  knew  when  I  headed  homeward, 
but  there  was  nothing  in  his  instinct  or  experience 
to  tell  him  how  long  the  journey  might  be.  So  he 
would  wait  patiently,  loyally,  knowing  I  was  com- 
ing, and  my  mother  would  take  his  dinner  out  to 
him. 

In  many  other  ways  Don  gave  the  impression, 
if  not  the  evidence,  that  he  was  a  "mind-reader." 
He  always  knew  when  Saturday  came,  or  a  holi- 
day, and  possibly  he  may  have  associated  the 
holiday  notion  with  my  old  clothes;  but  how  he 
knew  what  luck  the  day  had  in  store  for  him,  as  he 
often  seemed  to  know  the  instant  I  unsnapped  his 
chain  in  the  early  morning,  was  a  matter  that  at 
first  greatly  puzzled  me.  If  I  appeared  in  my  old 
clothes  and  set  him  free  with  the  resolution  that 

[78] 


Natural  Telepathy 


my  day  must  be  spent  in  study  or  tinkering  or 
farm  work,  he  would  bid  me  good  morning  and  go 
off  soberly  to  explore  the  premises,  as  dogs  are 
wont  to  do.  But  when  I  met  him  silently  with  the 
notion  that  the  day  was  my  day  off,  to  be  wasted 
in  shooting  or  fishing  or  roving  the  countryside, 
then  in  some  way  Don  caught  the  notion  in- 
stantly; he  would  be  tugging  at  his  leash  before  I 
reached  him,  and  no  sooner  was  he  free  than  he 
was  all  over  the  yard  in  mad  capers  or  making 
lunatic  attempts  to  drag  me  off  on  our  common 
holiday  before  breakfast. 

That  any  dog  of  mine  should  obey  my  word, 
doing  gladly  whatever  I  told  him,  was  to  be 
expected ;  or  that  in  the  field  he  should  watch  for 
a  motion  of  my  hand  and  follow  it  instantly, 
whether  to  charge  or  hold  or  come  in  or  cast  left 
or  right,  was  a  simple  matter  of  training;  but 
that  this  particular  dog  should,  unknown  to  me, 
enter  into  my  very  feeling,  was  certainly  not  the 
result  of  education,  and  probably  not  of  sight  or 
sense,  as  we  ordinarily  understand  the  terms. 
When  we  were  together  of  an  evening  before  the 
fire,  so  long  as  I  was  working  or  pleasantly  read- 
ing he  would  lie  curled  up  on  his  own  mat,  without 
ever  disturbing  me  till  it  was  time  for  him  to  be 
put  to  bed,  when  he  would  remind  me  of  the  fact 
by  nudging  my  elbow.  But  if  an  hour  came  when 

[791 


How  Animals  Talk 


I  was  in  perplexity,  or  had  heard  bad  news  and 
was  brooding  over  it,  hardly  would  I  be  away  in 
thought,  forgetful  of  Don's  existence  on  a  trail 
I  must  follow  alone,  when  his  silky  head  would 
slide  under  my  hand,  and  I  would  find  his  brown 
eyes  searching  my  face  with  something  inex- 
pressibly fine  and  loyal  and  wistful  in  their  ques- 
tioning deeps. 

Thus  repeatedly,  unexpectedly,  Don  seemed  to 
enter  into  my  moods  by  some  subtle,  mysterious 
perception  for  which  I  have  no  name,  and  no 
explanation  save  the  obvious  one — that  a  man's 
will  or  emotion  may  fill  a  room  with  waves  or 
vibration  as  real  as  those  streaming  from  a  fire  or 
a  lighted  candle,  and  that  normal  animals  have 
some  unused  bodily  faculty  for  receiving  precisely 
such  messages  or  vibrations.  But  we  are  not  yet 
quite  ready  for  that  part  of  our  trail;  it  will  come 
later,  when  we  can  follow  it  with  more  under- 
standing. 

Should  this  record  seem  to  you  too  personal 
(I  am  dealing  only  with  first-hand  impressions  of 
animal  life),  here  is  the  story  of  another  dog — 
not  a  blue-blooded  or  highly  trained  setter,  but 
just  an  ordinary,  doggy,  neglected  kind  of  dog — 
submitted  by  a  scientific  friend  of  mine,  who  very 
cautiously  offers  no  explanation,  but  is  content  to 
observe  and  verify  the  facts: 

[80] 


Natural  Telepathy 


This  second  dog,  Watch  by  name  and  nature, 
was  accustomed  to  meet  his  master  much  as  Don 
met  me  in  the  lane;  but  he  did  it  much  more 
frequently,  and  timed  the  meeting  more  accu- 
rately. He  was  nearer  the  natural  animal,  never 
having  been  trained  in  any  way,  and  perhaps  for 
that  reason  he  retained  more  of  the  natural  gift 
or  faculty  of  receiving  a  message  from  a  distance. 
His  owner,  a  busy  carpenter  and  builder,  had  an 
office  in  town,  and  was  accustomed  to  return  from 
his  office  or  work  at  all  hours,  sometimes  early 
in  the  afternoon,  and  again  long  after  dark.  At 
whatever  hour  the  man  turned  homeward,  Watch 
seemed  to  follow  his  movement  as  if  by  sight; 
he  would  grow  uneasy,  would  bark  to  be  let  out 
if  he  happened  to  be  in  the  house,  and  would  trot 
off  to  meet  his  master  about  half-way.  Though 
he  was  occasionally  at  fault,  and  sometimes  re- 
turned to  brood  over  the  matter  when  his  master, 
having  started  for  home,  was  turned  aside  by  some 
errand,  his  mistakes  were  decidedly  exceptional 
rather  than  typical.  His  strange  "gift"  was  a 
matter  of  common  knowledge  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  occasionally  a  doubtful  man  would 
stage  an  experiment:  the  master  would  agree  to 
mark  the  hour  when  he  turned  homeward,  and 
one  or  more  interested  persons  would  keep  tabs 
on  the  dog.  So  my  scientific  friend  repeatedly 


How  Animals  Talk 


tested  Watch,  and  observed  him  to  take  the  road 
within  a  few  moments  of  the  time  when  his  master 
left  his  office  or  building  operations  in  the  town, 
some  three  or  four  miles  away. 

Thus  far  the  record  is  clear  and  straight,  but 
there  is  one  important  matter  which  my  friend 
overlooked,  as  scientific  men  commonly  do  when 
they  deal  with  nature,  their  mistake  being  to 
regard  animals  as  featureless  members  of  a  class 
or  species  rather  than  as  individuals.  The  dog's 
master  always  came  or  went  in  a  wagon  drawn 
by  a  quiet  old  horse,  and  upon  inquiry  I  found 
that  between  Watch  and  the  horse  was  a  bond  of 
comradeship,  such  as  often  exists  between  two 
domestic  animals  of  different  species.  Thus,  the 
dog  often  preferred  to  sleep  in  the  stall  near  his 
big  chum,  or  would  accompany  him  to  the  pasture 
when  he  was  turned  loose,  and  would  always 
stand  by,  as  if  overlooking  the  operation,  when 
the  horse  was  being  harnessed.  It  may  well  be, 
therefore,  that  it  was  from  the  horse  rather  than 
from  the  man  that  Watch  received  notice  when 
heads  were  turned  homeward;  but  of  the  fact  that 
some  kind  of  telepathic  communication  passed 
between  two  members  of  the  trio  there  is  no 
reasonable  doubt. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  make  objection  at 
this  point  that,  though  something  like  telepathic 

[82! 


Natural  Telepathy 


communication  appears  now  and  then  among  the 
brutes,  it  should  be  regarded  as  merely  freakish  or 
sensational,  like  a  two-headed  calf;  while  others 
will  surely  ask,  "Why,  if  our  dogs  possess  such  a 
convenient  faculty,  do  they  not  use  it  more  fre- 
quently, more  obviously,  and  so  spare  themselves 
manifold  discomforts  or  misunderstandings?" 

Such  an  objection  is  natural  enough,  since  we 
judge  as  we  live,  mostly  by  habit;  but  it  has  no 
validity,  I  think,  and  for  two  reasons.  First, 
because  such  animals  as  we  have  thus  far  seen 
exercising  the  faculty  (and  they  are  but  a  few 
out  of  many)  are  apparently  normal  and  sensible 
beasts,  precisely  like  their  less-gifted  fellows ;  and 
second,  because  the  telepathic  power  itself,  when 
one  examines  it  without  prejudice,  appears  to  be 
wholly  natural,  and  sane  or  simple  as  the  power 
of  thought,  even  of  such  rudimentary  thought  as 
may  be  exercised  in  an  animal's  head.  As  for 
emotions,  more  intense  and  penetrating  than  any 
thought,  it  is  hardly  to  be  questioned  that  a  man's 
fear  or  panic  may  flow  through  his  knees  into  the 
horse  he  is  riding,  or  that  emotional  excitement 
may  spread  through  a  crowd  of  men  without  vis- 
ible or  audible  expression.  That  a  dog  should  re- 
ceive a  wordless  message  or  impulse  from  his 
master  at  a  distance  of  three  or  four  miles  is, 
fundamentally,  no  more  unnatural  than  that  one 

[83] 


How  Animals  Talk 


man  should  feel  another's  mood  at  a  distance 
of  three  or  four  feet.  Whether  we  can  explain 
the  phenomenon  on  strictly  biological  or  scientific 
grounds  is  another  matter. 

I  am  not  a  biologist,  unfortunately,  and  must  go 
cat-footedly  when  I  enter  that  strange  garret.  I 
look  with  wonder  on  these  patient,  unemotional 
men  who  care  nothing  for  a  bear  or  an  eagle,  but 
who  creep  lower  and  ever  lower  in  the  scale  of 
living  things,  searching  with  penetrating  looks 
among  infinitesimal  microbes  for  the  secret  that 
shall  solve  the  riddle  of  the  universe  by  telling  us 
what  life  is.  And  because  man  is  everywhere  the 
same,  watching  these  exploring  biologists  I  re- 
member the  curious  theology  of  certain  South- 
Pacific  savages,  who  say  that  God  made  all 
things,  the  stars  and  the  world  and  the  living  man; 
but  we  cannot  see  Him  because  He  is  so  very  small, 
because  a  dancing  mote  or  a  grain  of  sand  is  for 
Him  a  roomy  palace.  Yet  even  with  a  modest 
little  knowledge  of  biology  we  may  find  a  view- 
point, I  think,  from  which  telepathy  or  thought- 
transference  would  appear  as  natural,  as  in- 
evitable, as  the  forthgoing  of  light  from  a  burning 
lamp. 

Thus,  historically  there  was  a  time  when  the 
living  cell,  or  the  cell-of-life,  as  one  biologist  calls  it 
with  rare  distinction,  was  sensitive  only  to  pres- 

[84] 


Natural  Telepathy 


sure ;  when  in  its  darkness  it  knew  of  an  external 
world  only  by  its  own  tremblings,  in  response  to 
vibrations  which  poured  over  it  from  every  side. 
Something  made  it  tremble,  and  that  "something" 
had  motion  or  life  like  its  own.  Such,  imagina- 
tively, was  the  sentient  cell's  first  knowledge,  the 
result  of  a  sense  of  touch  distributed  throughout 
its  protecting  surface. 

Long  afterward  came  a  time  when  the  living  cell, 
multiplied  now  a  millionfold,  began  to  develop 
special  sense-organs,  each  a  modification  of  its 
rudimentary  sense  of  touch;  one  to  receive  vi- 
brations of  air,  for  hearing;  another  to  catch  some 
of  the  thronging  ether  waves,  for  seeing;  a  third 
to  register  the  floating  particles  of  matter  on  a 
sensitive  membrane,  for  taste  or  smelling.  By 
that  time  the  cell  had  learned  beyond  a  perad- 
venture  that  the  universe  outside  itself  had  light 
and  color  and  fragrance  and  harmony.  Finally 
came  a  day  when  the  cell,  still  multiplying  and 
growing  ever  more  complex,  became  conscious  of 
a  new  power  within  itself,  most  marvelous  of  all 
the  powers  of  earth,  the  power  to  think,  to  feel, 
and  to  be  aware  of  a  self  that  registered  its  own 
impressions  of  the  external  world.  And  then  the 
cell  knew,  as  surely  as  it  knew  sound  or  light,  that 
the  universe  held  consciousness  also,  and  some 
infinite  source  of  thought  and  feeling.  Such,  ap- 
7  [85] 


How  Animals  Talk 


parently,  was  the  age-long  process  from  the  sen- 
tient cell  to  the  living  man. 

Since  we  are  following  a  different  trail,  this  is 
hardly  the  time  or  place  to  face  the  question  how 
this  development  from  mere  living  to  conscious 
life  took  place,  even  if  one  were  wise  or  rash 
enough  to  grapple  with  the  final  problem  of 
evolution.  Yet  it  may  not  be  amiss  while  we 
"rest  a  pipe,"  as  the  voyageurs  say,  to  point  out 
that,  of  the  two  possible  answers  to  our  question 
(aside  from  the  convenient  and  restful  answer  that 
God  made  things  so),  only  one,  curiously  enough, 
has  thus  far  been  considered  by  our  physical 
scientists.  The  thousand  books  and  theories  of 
evolution  which  one  reads  are  all  reducible  to  this 
elementary  proposition:  that  the  simple  things  of 
life  became  complex  by  inner  necessity.  In  other 
words,  an  eye  became  an  eye,  or  an  oak  an  oak, 
or  a  man  a  man,  simply  because  each  must  de- 
velop according  to  the  inner  law  of  its  being. 

That  may  be  true,  though  the  all-compelling 
"inner  law"  is  still  only  a  vague  assumption,  and 
the  mystery  of  its  origin  is  untouched ;  but  why 
not  by  outer  compulsion  as  reasonably  as  by  in- 
ner necessity?  A  cell-of-life  that  was  constantly 
bombarded  by  moving  particles  of  matter  might  be 
compelled  to  develop  a  sense  of  touch,  in  order  to 
save  its  precious  life  by  differentiating  such  par- 

[86J 


Natural  Telepathy 


tides  into  good  and  bad,  or  helpful  and  harmful. 
A  cell  over  which  vibrations  of  air  and  ether  were 
continually  passing  might  be  forced  for  its  own 
good  to  develop  an  ear  and  an  eye  to  receive  such 
vibrations  as  sound  and  light;  and  a  cell  over 
which  mysterious  waves  of  thought  and  emotion 
were  ceaselessly  flowing  might  be  driven  to  com- 
prehend that  particular  mystery  by  developing  a 
thought  and  emotion  of  its  own. 

I  do  not  say  that  this  is  the  right  answer;  I 
mention  it  merely  as  a  speculative  possibility,  in 
order  to  get  our  alleged  scientific  mind  out  of  its 
deep  rut  of  habit  by  showing  that  every  road  has 
two  sides,  though  a  man  habitually  use  only  one; 
and  that  Reason  or  Law  or  God,  or  whatever  you 
choose  to  call  the  ultimate  mainspring  of  life,  is 
quite  as  apt  to  be  found  on  one  side  of  the  road  as 
on  the  other.  Inner  necessity  is  not  a  whit  more 
logical  or  more  explanatory  than  external  force  or 
compulsion  when  we  face  the  simple  fact  that  an 
animal  now  sees  and  feels  in  the  light  instead  of 
merely  existing  in  darkness,  or  that  primitive  cells 
which  were  dimly  sentient  have  now  become  as 
thinking  gods,  knowing  good  and  evil. 

What  this  thought  of  ours  is  we  do  not  know. 
Beyond  the  fact  that  we  have  it  and  use  it,  thought 
still  remains  a  profound  mystery.  That  it  is  a 
living  force  of  some  kind;  that  it  projects  itself 

[87] 


How  Animals  Talk 


or  its  waves  outward,  as  the  sun  cannot  but  send 
forth  his  light;  that  it  affects  men  as  surely  as 
gravitation  or  heat  or  the  blow  of  a  hammer  af- 
fects them, — all  this  is  reasonably  clear  and  cer- 
tain. But  how  thought  travels;  what  refined 
mental  ether  conveys  it  outward  with  a  speed  that 
makes  light  as  slow  as  a  glacier  by  comparison, 
and  with  a  force  that  sends  it  through  walls  of 
stone  and  into  every  darkness  that  the  light  cannot 
penetrate, — this  and  the  origin  of  thought  are 
questions  so  deep  that  our  science  has  barely 
formulated  them,  much  less  dreamed  of  an  answer. 
Yet  if  we  once  grant  the  simple  proposition  that 
thought  is  a  force,  that  it  moves  inevitably  from 
its  source  to  its  object,  the  conclusion  is  inevitable 
that  any  thinking  mind  should  be  able  to  send  its 
silent  message  to  any  other  mind  in  the  universe. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  nature  of  either  mind  or 
matter  to  preclude  such  a  possibility;  only  our 
present  habit  of  speech,  of  too  much  speech,  pre- 
vents us  from  viewing  it  frankly. 

As  a  purely  speculative  consummation,  therefore, 
the  time  may  come  when  telepathy  shall  appear 
as  the  natural  or  perfect  communication  among 
enlightened  minds,  and  language  as  a  temporary  or 
evolutionary  makeshift.  But  that  beckons  us  away 
to  an  imaginative  flight  among  the  clouds,  and  on 
the  earth  at  our  feet  is  the  trail  we  must  follow. 

[88] 


Natural  Telepathy 


The  question  why  our  dogs,  if  they  have  the 
faculty  of  receiving  a  master's  message  at  a  dis- 
tance, do  not  use  it  more  obviously,  is  one  that  I 
cannot  answer.  Perhaps  the  reason  is  obvious 
enough  to  some  of  the  dogs,  which  have  a  sidelong 
way  of  coming  home  from  their  roving,  as  if  aware 
they  had  long  been  wanted.  Or,  possibly,  the 
difficulty  lies  not  in  the  dog,  but  in  his  master. 
Every  communication  has  two  ends,  one  sending, 
the  other  receiving;  and  of  a  thousand  owners 
there  are  hardly  two  who  know  how  properly  to 
handle  a  dog  either  by  speech  or  by  silence.  Still 
again,  one  assumption  implied  in  the  question  is 
that  dogs  or  any  other  animals  of  the  same  kind 
are  all  alike;  and  that  common  assumption  is 
very  wide  of  the  fact.  Animals  differ  as  widely 
in  their  instinctive  faculties  as  men  in  their  judg- 
ments; which  partly  explains  why  one  setter 
readily  follows  his  master's  word  or  hand,  or  en- 
ters into  'his  mood,  while  another  remains  hope- 
lessly dumb  or  unresponsive.  The  telepathic  fac- 
ulty appears  more  frequently,  as  we  shall  see, 
among  birds  or  animals  that  habitually  live  in 
flocks  or  herds,  and  I  have  always  witnessed  its 
most  striking  or  impressive  manifestation  between 
a  mother  animal  and  her  young,  as  if  some  pre- 
natal influence  or  control  were  still  at  work. 

For  example,  I  have  occasionally  had  the  good 

[89] 


How  Animals  Talk 


luck  to  observe  a  she-wolf  leading  her  pack  across 
the  white  expanse  of  a  frozen  lake  in  winter;  and 
at  such  times  the  cubs  have  a  doggish  impulse  to 
run  after  any  moving  object  that  attracts  their 
attention.  If  a  youngster  breaks  away  to  rush 
an  animal  that  he  sees  moving  in  the  woods  (once 
that  moving  animal  was  myself),  the  mother  heads 
him  instantly  if  he  is  close  to  her ;  but  if  he  is  off 
before  she  can  check  him  by  a  motion  of  her  ears 
or  a  low  growl,  she  never  wastes  time  or  strength 
in  chasing  him.  She  simply  holds  quiet,  lifts  her 
head  high,  and  looks  steadily  at  the  running  cub. 
Suddenly  he  wavers,  halts,  and  then,  as  if  the  look 
recalled  him,  whirls  and  speeds  back  to  the  pack. 
If  the  moving  object  be  proper  game  afoot,  the 
mother  now  goes  ahead  to  stalk  or  drive  it,  while 
the  pack  follows  stealthily  behind  her  on  either 
side;  but  if  the  distant  object  be  a  moose  or  a 
man,  or  anything  else  that  a  wolf  must  not  meddle 
with,  then  the  mother  wolf  trots  quietly  on  her 
way  without  a  sound,  and  the  errant  cub  falls  into 
place  as  if  he  had  understood  her  silent  command. 
You  may  observe  the  same  phenomenon  of  silent 
order  and  ready  obedience  nearer  home,  if  you 
have  patience  to  watch  day  after  day  at  a  burrow 
of  young  foxes.  I  have  spent  hours  by  different 
dens,  and  have  repeatedly  witnessed  what  seemed 
to  be  excellent  discipline;  but  I  have  never  yet 

[90] 


Natural  Telepathy 


heard  a  vixen  utter  a  growl  or  cry  or  warning  of 
any  kind.  That  audible  communication  comes 
later,  when  the  cubs  begin  to  hunt  for  themselves ; 
and  then  you  will  often  hear  the  mother's  querulous 
squall  or  the  cubs'  impatient  crying  when  they  are 
separated  in  the  dark  woods.  While  the  den  is 
their  home  (they  seldom  enter  it  after  they  once 
roam  abroad)  silence  is  the  rule,  and  that  silence  is 
most  eloquent.  For  hours  at  a  stretch  the  cubs 
romp  lustily  in  the  afternoon  sunshine,  some 
stalking  imaginary  mice  or  grasshoppers,  others 
challenging  their  mates  to  mock  fights  or  mock 
hunting;  and  the  most  striking  feature  of  the 
exercise,  after  you  have  become  familiar  with  the 
fascinating  little  creatures,  is  that  the  old  vixen, 
who  lies  apart  where  she  can  overlook  the  play  and 
the  neighborhood,  seems  to  have  the  family  under 
perfect  control  at  every  instant,  though  never  a 
word  is  uttered. 

That  some  kind  of  communication  passes  among 
these  intelligent  little  brutes  is  constantly  evident ; 
but  it  is  without  voice  or  language.  Now  and 
then,  when  a  cub's  capers  lead  him  too  far  from 
the  den,  the  vixen  lifts  her  head  to  look  at  him 
intently;  and  somehow  that  look  has  the  same 
effect  as  the  she-wolf's  silent  call;  it  stops  the  cub 
as  if  she  had  sent  a  cry  or  a  messenger  after  him. 
If  that  happened  once,  you  might  overlook  it  as  a 

[91] 


How  Animals  Talk 


matter  of  mere  chance ;  but  it  happens  again  and 
again,  and  always  in  the  same  challenging  way. 
The  eager  cub  suddenly  checks  himself,  turns  as 
if  he  had  heard  a  command,  catches  the  vixen's 
look,  and  back  he  comes  like  a  trained  dog  to  the 
whistle. 

As  the  shadows  lengthen  on  the  hillside,  and  the 
evening  comes  when  the  mother  must  go  mousing 
in  the  distant  meadow,  she  rises  quietly  to  her  feet. 
Instantly  the  play  stops;  the  cubs  gather  close, 
their  heads  all  upturned  to  the  greater  head  that 
bends  to  them,  and  there  they  stand  in  mute  intent- 
ness,  as  if  the  mother  were  speaking  and  the  cubs 
listening.  For  a  brief  interval  that  tense  scene 
endures,  exquisitely  impressive,  while  you  strain 
your  senses  to  catch  its  meaning.  There  is  no 
sound,  no  warning  of  any  kind  that  ears  can  hear. 
Then  the  cubs  scamper  quickly  into  the  burrow; 
the  mother,  without  once  looking  back,  slips  away 
into  the  shadowy  twilight.  At  the  den's  mouth  a 
foxy  little  face  appears,  its  nostrils  twitching,  its 
eyes  following  a  moving  shadow  in  the  distance. 
When  the  shadow  is  swallowed  up  in  the  dusk  the 
face  draws  back,  and  the  wild  hillside  is  wholly 
silent  and  deserted. 

You  can  go  home  now.  The  vixen  may  be  hours 
on  her  hunting,  but  not  a  cub  will  again  show 
his  nose  until  she  returns  and  calls  him.  If  a 

[92] 


Natural  Telepathy 


human  mother  could  exercise  such  silent,  perfect 
discipline,  or  leave  the  house  with  the  certainty 
that  four  or  five  lively  youngsters  would  keep  out 
of  danger  or  mischief  as  completely  as  young  fox 
cubs  keep  out  of  it,  raising  children  might  more 
resemble  "one  grand  sweet  song"  than  it  does  at 
present. 

So  far  as  I  have  observed  grown  birds  or  beasts, 
the  faculty  of  silent  communication  occurs  most 
commonly  among  those  that  are  gregarious  or 
strongly  social  in  their  habits.  The  timber- 
wolves  of  the  North  are  the  first  examples  that  oc- 
cur to  me,  and  also  the  most  puzzling.  They  are 
wary  brutes,  so  much  so  that  those  who  have  spent 
a  lifetime  near  them  will  tell  you  that  it  is  use- 
less to  hunt  a  wolf  by  any  ordinary  method;  that 
your  meeting  with  him  is  a  matter  of  chance  or 
rare  accident;  that  not  only  has  he  marvelously 
keen  ears,  eyes  that  see  in  the  dark,  and  a  nose 
that  cannot  be  deceived,  but  he  can  also  "feel"  a 
danger  which  is  hidden  from  sight  or  smell  or 
hearing.  Such  is  the  Indian  verdict;  and  I  have 
followed  wolves  often  and  vainly  enough  to  have 
some  sympathy  with  it. 

The  cunning  of  these  animals  would  be  uncanny 
if  it  were  merely  cunning;  but  it  is  naturally 
explained,  I  think,  on  the  assumption  that  wolves, 

[93] 


How  Animals  Talk 


more  than  most  other  brutes,  receive  silent  warn- 
ings from  one  another,  or  even  from  a  concealed 
hunter,  who  may  by  his  excitement  send  forth 
some  kind  of  emotional  alarm.  When  you  are 
sitting  quietly  in  the  woods,  and  a  pack  of  wolves 
pass  near  without  noticing  their  one  enemy,  though 
he  is  in  plain  sight,  you  think  that  they  are  no 
more  cunning  than  a  bear  or  a  buck;  and  that  is 
true,  so  far  as  their  cunning  depends  on  what  they 
may  see  or  hear.  Once  when  I  was  crossing  a 
frozen  lake  in  a  snow-storm  a  whole  pack  of  wolves 
rushed  out  of  the  nearest  cover  and  came  at  me  on 
the  jump,  mistaking  me  for  a  deer  or  some  other 
game  animal;  which  does  not  speak  very  highly 
for  either  their  eyes  or  their  judgment.  They  were 
the  most  surprised  brutes  in  all  Canada  when  they 
discovered  their  mistake.  But  when  you  hide 
with  ready  rifle  near  some  venison  which  the  same 
wolves  have  killed ;  when  you  see  them  break  out 
of  the  woods  upon  the  ice,  running  free  and  con- 
fident to  the  food  which  they  know  is  awaiting 
them;  when  you  see  them  stop  suddenly,  as  if 
struck,  though  they  cannot  possibly  see  or  smell 
you,  and  then  scatter  and  run  by  separate  trails  to 
a  meeting-point  on  another  lake — well,  then  you 
may  conclude,  as  I  do,  that  part  of  a  wolfs  cunning 
lies  deeper  than  his  five  senses. 
Another  lupine  trait  which  first  surprised  and 

[94] 


Natural  Telepathy 


then  challenged  my  woodcraft  is  this:  in  the 
winter-time,  when  timber-wolves  commonly  run 
in  small  packs,  a  solitary  or  separated  wolf  always 
seems  to  know  where  his  mates  are  hunting  or 
idly  roving  or  resting  in  their  day-bed.  The  pack 
is  made  up  of  his  family  relatives,  younger  or  older, 
all  mothered  by  the  same  she-wolf;  and  by  some 
bond  or  attraction  or  silent  communication  he  can 
go  straight  to  them  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night, 
though  he  may  not  have  seen  them  for  a  week, 
and  they  have  wandered  over  countless  miles  of 
wilderness  in  the  interim. 

We  may  explain  this  fact,  if  such  it  be  (I  shall 
make  it  clear  presently),  on  the  simple  ground 
that  the  wolves,  though  incurable  rovers,  have 
bounds  beyond  which  they  seldom  pass;  that  they 
return  on  their  course  with  more  or  less  regularity; 
and  that  in  traveling,  as  distinct  from  hunting, 
they  always  follow  definite  runways,  like  the 
foxes.  Because  of  these  fixed  habits,  a  solitary 
wolf  might  remember  that  the  pack  was  due  in  a 
certain  region  on  a  certain  day,  and  by  going  to 
that  region  and  putting  his  nose  to  the  runways  he 
could  quickly  pick  up  the  fresh  trail  of  his  fellows. 
There  is  nothing  occult  in  such  a  process;  it  is  a 
plain  matter  of  brain  and  nose. 

Such  an  explanation  sounds  reasonable  enough; 
too  reasonable,  in  fact,  since  a  brute  probably 

[951 


How  Animals  Talk 


acts  more  intuitively  and  less  rationally;  but  it 
does  not  account  for  the  amazing  certainty  of  a 
wounded  wolf  when  separated  from  his  pack.  He 
always  does  separate,  by  the  way;  not  because  the 
others  would  eat  him,  for  that  is  not  wolf  nature, 
but  because  every  stricken  bird  or  beast  seeks 
instinctively  to  be  alone  and  quiet  while  his  hurt 
is  healing.  I  have  followed  with  keen  interest  the 
doings  of  one  wounded  wolf  that  hid  for  at  least  two 
days  and  nights  in  a  sheltered  den,  after  which  he 
rose  from  his  bed  and  went  straight  as  a  bee's 
flight  to  where  his  pack  had  killed  a  buck  and 
left  plenty  of  venison  behind  them. 

In  this  case  it  is  possible  to  limit  the  time  of  the 
wounded  wolfs  seclusion,  because  the  limping 
track  that  led  from  the  den  was  but  a  few  hours 
old  when  I  found  it,  and  the  only  track  leading 
into  the  den  was  half  obliterated  by  snow  which 
had  fallen  two  nights  previously.  How  many 
devious  miles  the  pack  had  traveled  in  the  interim 
would  be  hard  to  estimate.  I  crossed  their  hunt- 
ing or  roaming  trails  at  widely  separate  points,  and 
once  I  surprised  them  in  their  day-bed ;  but  I  never 
found  the  limit  of  their  great  range.  A  few  days 
later  that  same  limping  wolf  left  another  den  of  his, 
under  a  windfall,  and  headed  not  for  the  buck, 
which  was  now  frozen  stiff,  but  for  another  deer 
which  the  same  pack  had  killed  in  a  different 

[96] 


Natural  Telepathy 


region,  some  eight  or  ten  straight  miles  away,  and 
perhaps  twice  that  distance  as  wolves  commonly 
travel. 

If  you  contend  that  this  wounded  wolf  must 
have  known  where  the  meat  was  by  the  howling 
of  the  pack  when  they  killed,  I  grant  that  may  be 
true  in  one  case,  but  certainly  not  in  the  other. 
For  by  great  good  luck  I  was  near  the  pack,  follow- 
ing a  fresh  trail  in  the  gray,  breathless  dawn,  when 
the  wolves  killed  the  second  deer;  and  there  was 
not  a  sound  for  mortal  ears  to  hear,  not  a  howl  or 
a  trail  cry  or  even  a  growl  of  any  kind.  They  fol- 
lowed, killed  and  ate  in  silence,  as  wolves  com- 
monly do,  their  howling  being  a  thing  apart  from 
their  hunting.  The  wounded  wolf  was  then  far 
away,  with  miles  of  densely  wooded  hills  and  val- 
leys between  him  and  his  pack. 

Do  you  ask,  "How  was  it  possible  to  know  all 
this?"  From  the  story  the  snow  told.  At  day- 
break I  had  found  the  trail  of  a  hunting  pack,  and 
was  following  it  stealthily,  with  many  a  cautious 
detour  and  look  ahead,  for  they  are  unbelievably 
shy  brutes;  and  so  it  happened  that  I  came  upon 
the  carcass  of  the  deer  only  a  few  minutes  after 
the  wolves  had  fed  and  roamed  lazily  off  toward 
their  day-bed.  I  followed  them  too  eagerly,  and 
alarmed  them  before  I  could  pick  the  big  one  I 
wanted;  whereupon  they  took  to  rough  country, 

[97] 


How  Animals  Talk 


traveling  a  pace  that  left  me  hopelessly  far  behind. 
When  I  returned  to  the  deer,  to  read  how  the 
wolves  had  surprised  and  killed  their  game,  I  no- 
ticed the  fresh  trail  of  a  solitary  wolf  coming  in  at 
right  angles  to  the  trail  of  the  hunting  pack.  It 
was  the  limper  again,  who  had  just  eaten  what  he 
wanted  and  trailed  off  by  himself.  I  followed  and 
soon  jumped  him,  and  took  after  him  on  the  lope, 
thinking  I  could  run  him  down  or  at  least  come 
near  enough  for  a  revolver-shot;  but  that  was  a 
foolish  notion.  Even  on  three  legs  he  whisked 
through  the  thick  timber  so  much  easier  than  I 
could  run  on  show-shoes  that  I  never  got  a  second 
glimpse  of  him. 

By  that  time  I  was  bound  to  know,  if  possible, 
how  the  limper  happened  to  find  this  second  deer 
for  his  comfort ;  so  I  picked  up  his  incoming  trail 
and  ran  it  clear  back  to  his  den  under  the  wind- 
fall, from  which  he  had  come  as  straight  as  if  he 
knew  exactly  where  he  was  heading.  His  trail 
was  from  eastward;  what  little  air  was  stirring 
came  from  the  south;  so  that  it  was  impossible 
for  his  nose  to  guide  him  to  the  meat  even  had  he 
been  within  smelling  distance,  as  he  certainly  was 
not.  The  record  in  the  snow  was  as  plain  as  any 
other  print,  and  from  it  one  might  reasonably 
conclude  that  either  the  wolves  can  send  forth  a 
silent  food-call,  with  some  added  information,  or 

[98] 


Natural  Telepathy 


else  that  a  solitary  wolf  may  be  so  in  touch  with 
his  pack-mates  that  he  knows  not  only  where  they 
are,  but  also,  in  a  general  way,  what  they  are  doing. 

In  comparison  with  timber-wolves  the  caribou 
is  rather  a  witless  brute;  but  he,  too,  has  his 
"uncanny"  moods,  and  one  who  patiently  follows 
him,  with  deeper  interest  in  his  anima  than  in  his 
antlered  head,  finds  him  frequently  doing  some 
odd  or  puzzling  thing  which  may  indicate  a  per- 
ception more  subtle  than  that  of  his  dull  eyes  or 
keen  ears  or  almost  perfect  nose.  Here  is  one 
example  of  Megaleep's  peculiar  way: 

I  was  trailing  a  herd  of  caribou  one  winter  day 
on  the  barrens  (treeless  plains  or  bogs)  of  the 
Renous  River  in  New  Brunswick.  For  hours  I 
had  followed  through  alternate  thick  timber  and 
open  bog  without  alarming  or  even  seeing  my 
game.  The  animals  were  plainly  on  the  move, 
perhaps  changing  their  feeding-ground ;  and  when 
Megaleep  begins  to  wander  no  man  can  say  where 
he  will  go,  or  where  stop,  or  what  he  is  likely  to 
do  next.  Once,  after  trailing  him  eight  or  ten 
miles,  twice  jumping  him,  I  met  him  head-on, 
coming  briskly  back  in  his  own  tracks,  as  if  to  see 
what  was  following  him.  From  the  trail  I  read 
that  there  were  a  dozen  animals  in  the  herd,  and 
that  one  poor  wounded  brute  lagged  continually 
behind  the  others.  He  was  going  on  three  legs; 

[99l 


How  Animals  Talk 


his  right  forefoot,  the  bone  above  it  shattered  by 
some  blundering  hunter's  bullet,  swung  help- 
lessly as  he  hobbled  along,  leaving  its  pathetic 
record  in  the  snow. 

On  a  wooded  slope  which  fell  away  to  a  chain  of 
barrens,  halting  to  search  the  trail  ahead,  my  eye 
caught  a  motion  far  across  the  open,  and  through 
the  field-glass  I  saw  my  herd  for  the  first  time, 
resting  unsuspiciously  on  the  farther  edge  of  the 
barren,  a  full  mile  or  more  away.  From  my  feet 
the  trail  led  down  through  a  dense  fringe  of  ever- 
green, and  then  straight  out  across  the  level  plain. 
A  few  of  the  caribou  were  lying  down;  others 
moved  lazily  in  or  out  of  the  forest  that  shut  in  the 
barren  on  that  side;  and  as  I  watched  them  two 
animals,  yearlings  undoubtedly,  put  their  heads 
together  for  a  pushing  match,  like  domestic  calves 
at  play. 

Hardly  had  I  begun  to  circle  the  barren,  keeping 
near  the  edge  of  it  but  always  out  of  sight  in  the 
evergreens,  when  I  ran  upon  a  solitary  caribou 
trail,  the  trail  of  the  cripple,  who  had  evidently 
wearied  and  turned  aside  to  rest,  perhaps  knowing 
that  his  herd  was  near  the  end  of  its  journey. 
A  little  farther  on  I  jumped  him  out  of  a  fir 
thicket,  and  watched  him  a  moment  as  he  hobbled 
deeper  into  the  woods,  heading  away  to  the  west. 
The  course  surprised  me  a  little,  for  his  mates 

[100] 


Natural  Telepathy 


were  northward;  and  at  the  thought  I  quickly 
found  an  opening  in  the  cover  and  turned  my 
glass  upon  the  other  caribou.  Already  they  were 
in  wild  alarm.  For  a  brief  interval  they  ran 
about  confusedly,  or  stood  tense  as  they  searched 
the  plain  and  the  surrounding  woods  for  the  source 
of  danger;  then  they  pushed  their  noses  out  and 
racked  away  at  a  marvelous  pace,  crossing  the 
barren  diagonally  toward  me  and  smashing  into 
the  woods  a  short  distance  ahead,  following  a 
course  which  must  soon  bring  them  and  their 
wounded  mate  together.  If  I  were  dealing  with 
people,  I  might  say  confidently  that  they  were  bent 
on  finding  out  what  the  alarm  was  about;  but  as  I 
have  no  means  of  knowing  the  caribou  motive,  I 
can  only  say  that  the  two  trails  ran  straight  as  a 
string  through  the  timber  to  a  meeting-point  on 
the  edge  of  another  barren  to  the  westward. 

If  you  would  reasonably  explain  the  matter, 
remember  that  these  startled  animals  were  far  away 
from  me ;  that  the  cripple  and  myself  were  both 
hidden  from  their  eyes,  and  that  I  was  moving  up- 
wind and  silently.  It  was  impossible  that  they 
should  hear  or  see  or  smell  me ;  yet  they  were  on 
their  toes  a  moment  after  the  cripple  started  up, 
as  if  he  had  rung  a  bell  for  them.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  I  had  witnessed  a  herd  of  animals  break 
away  when,  as  I  suspected,  they  had  received  some 
8  [  ioi  ] 


How  Animals  Talk 


silent,  incomprehensible  warning,  nor  was  it  the 
last;  but  it  was  the  only  time  when  I  could  trace 
the  whole  process  without  break  or  question  from 
beginning  to  end.  And  when,  to  test  the  matter 
to  the  bottom,  I  ran  the  trail  of  the  herd  back 
to  where  they  had  been  resting,  there  was  no 
track  of  man  or  beast  in  the  surrounding  woods 
to  account  for  their  flight. 

One  may  explain  this  as  a  mere  coincidence, 
which  is  not  an  explanation;  or  call  it  another 
example  of  the  fact  that  wild  animals  are  "queer," 
which  is  not  a  fact;  but  in  my  own  mind  every 
action  of  the  caribou  and  all  the  circumstances 
point  to  a  different  conclusion — namely,  that  the 
fear  or  warning  or  impulse  of  one  animal  was 
instantly  transferred  to  others  at  a  distance.  I 
think,  also,  that  the  process  was  not  wholly  un- 
conscious or  subconscious,  but  that  one  animal 
sent  forth  his  warning  and  the  others  acted  upon  it 
more  or  less  intelligently.  This  last  is  a  mere 
assumption,  however,  which  cannot  be  proved  till 
we  learn  to  live  in  an  animal's  skin. 

It  is  true  that  the  event  often  befalls  otherwise, 
since  you  may  jump  one  animal  without  alarming 
others  of  the  same  herd ;  and  it  is  possible  that  the 
degree  or  quality  of  the  alarm  has  something  to 
do  with  its  carrying  power,  as  we  feel  the  intense 
emotion  of  a  friend  more  quickly  than  his  ordinary 

f!02l 


rhey  stood  tense  as  they  searched  the  plain  and  surrounding  woods 
for  the  source  of  danger. 


Natural  Telepathy 


moods.  In  this  case  the  solitary  caribou  was 
tremendously  startled;  for  I  was  very  near,  and 
the  first  intimation  he  had  of  me,  or  I  of  him,  was 
when  my  snow-shoe  caught  on  a  snag  and  I 
pitched  over  a  log  almost  on  top  of  him.  Yet  the 
difficulty  of  drawing  a  conclusion  from  any  single 
instance  appears  in  this:  that  I  have  more  than 
once  stalked,  killed  and  dressed  an  animal  with- 
out disturbing  others  of  his  kind  near  at  hand  (it 
may  be  that  no  alarm  was  sent  out,  for  the  animal 
was  shot  before  he  knew  the  danger,  and  in  the 
deep  woods  animals  pay  little  attention  to  the 
sound  of  a  rifle) ;  and  again,  when  I  have  been 
trying  to  approach  a  herd  from  leeward,  I  have 
seen  them  move  away  hurriedly,  silently,  suspi- 
ciously, in  obedience  to  some  warning  which 
seemed  to  spread  through  the  woods  like  a 
contagion. 

The  latter  experience  is  common  enough  among 
hunters  of  big  game,  who  are  often  at  a  loss  to 
explain  the  sudden  flight  of  animals  that  a  moment 
ago,  under  precisely  the  same  outward  influences, 
were  feeding  or  resting  without  suspicion.  Thus, 
you  may  be  stalking  a  big  herd  of  elk,  or  wapiti, 
which  are  spread  out  loosely  over  half  a  mountain- 
side. You  are  keen  for  the  master  bull  with  the 
noble  antlers;  nothing  else  interests  you,  more's 
the  pity;  but  you  soon  learn  that  the  cunning  old 

[103] 


How  Animals  Talk 


brute  is  hidden  somewhere  in  the  midst  of  the 
herd,  depending  on  the  screen  of  cow-elk  to  warn 
him  of  danger  to  his  precious  skin.  Waiting  im- 
patiently till  this  vanguard  has  moved  aside,  you 
attempt  to  worm  your  way  nearer  to  the  hidden 
bull.  You  are  succeeding  beautifully,  you  think, 
when  a  single  cow  that  you  overlooked  begins  to 
act  uneasily.  She  has  not  seen  or  heard  you, 
certainly,  and  the  wind  is  still  in  your  favor; 
but  there  she  stands,  like  an  image  of  suspicion, 
head  up,  looking,  listening,  testing  the  air,  till 
she  makes  up  her  mind  she  would  as  lief  be  some- 
where else,  when  without  cry  or  grunt  or  warning 
of  any  kind  that  ears  can  hear  she  turns  and 
glides  rapidly  away. 

Now  if  you  value  animal  lore  above  stuffed 
skins,  or  experience  above  the  babble  of  hunting 
naturalists,  forget  the  big  bull  and  his  greed- 
stirring  antlers;  scramble  quickly  to  the  highest 
outlook  at  hand,  and  use  your  eyes.  No  alarm 
has  been  sounded;  the  vast  silence  is  unbroken; 
yet  for  some  mysterious  reason  the  whole  herd  is 
suddenly  on  the  move.  To  your  right,  to  your 
left,  near  at  hand  or  far  away,  bushes  quiver  or 
jump;  alert  brown  forms  appear  or  vanish  like 
shadows,  all  silent  and  all  heading  in  the  direction 
taken  by  the  first  sentinel.  One  moment  there 
are  scores  of  elk  in  sight,  feeding  or  resting 

[104] 


Natural  Telepathy 


quietly;  the  next  they  are  gone  and  the  great 
hillside  is  lifeless.  The  thrill  of  that  silent,  mov- 
ing drama  has  more  wisdom  in  it,  yes,  and  more 
pleasure,  than  the  crash  of  your  barbarous  rifle 
or  the  convulsive  kicking  of  a  stricken  beast  that 
knows  not  why  you  should  kill  him. 

Such  is  the  experience,  known  to  almost  every 
elk-hunter  who  has  learned  that  life  is  more  inter- 
esting than  death;  and  I  know  nothing  of  deer 
nature  to  explain  it  save  this — that  the  whole  herd 
has  suddenly  felt  and  understood  the  silent  impulse 
to  go,  and  has  obeyed  it  without  a  question,  as  the 
young  wolf  or  fox  cub  obeys  the  silent  return  call 
of  his  watchful  mother. 

Such  impulses  seem  to  be  more  common  and 
more  dependable  among  the  whales,  which  have 
rudimentary  or  imperfect  sense-organs,  but  which 
are  nevertheless  delicately  sensitive  to  external 
impressions,  to  the  approach  of  unseen  danger,  to 
the  movements  of  the  tiny  creatures  on  which  they 
feed,  to  changes  of  wind  or  tide  and  to  a  falling 
barometer,  as  if  nature  had  given  them  a  first- 
class  feeling  apparatus  of  some  kind  to  make  up 
for  their  poor  eyes  and  ears.  Repeatedly  have 
I  been  struck  by  this  extraordinary  sensitiveness 
when  watching  the  monstrous  creatures  feeding 
with  the  tide  in  one  of  the  great  bays  of  the  New- 
foundland or  the  Labrador  coast.  If  I  lowered  a 

[105] 


How  Animals  Talk 


boat  to  approach  one  of  them,  he  would  disappear 
silently  before  I  could  ever  get  near  enough  to  see 
clearly  what  he  was  doing.  That  seemed  odd  to 
me;  but  presently  I  began  to  notice  a  more  puz- 
zling thing:  at  the  instant  my  whale  took  alarm 
every  other  whale  of  the  same  species  seemed  to 
be  moved  by  the  same  impulse,  sounding  when  the 
first  sounded,  or  else  turning  with  him  to  head  for 
the  open  sea. 

A  score  of  times  I  tried  the  experiment,  and 
commonly,  but  not  invariably,  with  the  same  re- 
sult. I  would  sight  a  few  leviathans  playing  or 
feeding,  shooting  up  from  the  deep,  breaching  half 
their  length  out  of  water  to  fall  back  with  a 
tremendous  souse;  and  through  my  glasses  I  would 
pick  up  others  here  or  there  in  the  same  bay. 
Selecting  a  certain  whale,  I  would  glide  rapidly 
toward  him,  crouching  low  in  the  dory  and  sculling 
silently  by  means  of  an  oar  over  the  stern.  By 
some  odd  channel  of  perception  (not  by  sight,  cer- 
tainly, for  I  kept  out  of  the  narrow  range  of  his 
eye,  and  a  whale  is  not  supposed  to  smell  or  hear) 
he  would  invariably  get  wind  of  me  and  go  down ; 
and  then,  jumping  to  my  feet,  I  would  see  other 
whales  in  the  distance  catch  the  instant  alarm, 
some  upending  as  they  plunged  to  the  deeps, 
others  whirling  seaward  and  forging  full  speed 
ahead. 

[106] 


Natural  Telepathy 


This  observation  of  mine  is  not  unique,  as  I 
supposed,  for  later  I  heard  it  echoed  as  a  matter 
of  course  by  the  whalemen.  Thus,  when  I  talked 
with  my  friend,  Captain  Rule,  about  the  ways  of 
the  great  creatures  he  had  followed  in  the  old 
whaling-days,  he  said,  "The  queerest  habit  of  a 
whale,  or  of  any  other  critter  I  ever  fell  foul  of, 
was  this:  when  I  got  my  boat  close  enough  to  a 
sperm-whale  to  put  an  iron  into  him,  every  other 
sperm-whale  within  ten  miles  would  turn  flukes, 
as  if  he  had  been  harpooned,  too."  But  he  added 
that  he  had  not  noticed  the  same  contagion  of 
alarm,  not  in  the  same  striking  or  instantaneous 
way,  when  hunting  the  right  or  Greenland  whale 
— perhaps  because  the  latter  is,  as  a  rule,  more 
solitary  in  its  habits. 

Wolves  and  caribou  and  whales  are  far  from  the 
observation  of  most  folk ;  but  the  winter  birds  in 
your  own  yard  may  some  time  give  you  a  hint,  at 
least,  of  the  same  mysterious  transference  of  an 
impulse  over  wide  distances.  When  you  scatter 
food  for  them  during  a  cold  snap  or  after  a  storm 
(it  is  better  not  to  feed  them  regularly,  I  think, 
especially  in  mild  weather  when  their  proper  food 
is  not  covered  with  snow)  your  bounty  is  at  first 
neglected  except  by  the  house  sparrows  and 
starlings.  Unlike  our  native  birds,  these  im- 
ported foreigners  are  easily  "pauperized,"  seeking 

[107] 


How  Animals  Talk 


no  food  for  themselves  so  long  as  you  take  care  of 
them.  They  keep  tabs  on  you,  also,  waiting  pa- 
tiently about  the  house,  and  soon  learn  what  it 
means  when  you  emerge  from  your  back  door  on  a 
snowy  morning  with  a  broom  in  one  hand  and  a 
pan  in  the  other.  They  are  feeding  greedily  the 
moment  your  back  is  turned,  and  for  a  time  they 
are  the  only  birds  at  the  table.  When  they  have 
gorged  themselves,  for  they  have  no  manners,  a 
few  tree-sparrows  and  juncos  flit  in  to  eat  daintily. 
Then  suddenly  the  wilder  birds  appear — jays, 
chickadees,  siskins,  kinglets  and,  oh,  welcome!  a 
flock  of  bob-whites — coming  from  you  know  not 
where,  in  obedience  to  a  summons  which  you  have 
not  heard.  Some  of  these  may  have  visited  the 
yard  in  time  past,  and  are  returning  to  it  now, 
hunger  driven;  but  others  you  have  never  before 
met  within  the  city  limits,  and  a  few  have  their 
accustomed  dwelling  in  the  pine  woods,  which  are 
miles  away.  How  did  these  hungry  hermits  sud- 
denly learn  that  food  was  here  ? 

The  answer  to  that  question  is  simple,  and  en- 
tirely "sensible"  if  you  think  only  of  birds  that 
live  or  habitually  glean  in  your  neighborhood. 
Some  of  them  saw  you  scatter  the  food,  or  else 
found  it  by  searching,  while  others  spied  these 
lucky  ones  feeding  and  came  quickly  to  join  the 
feast.  For  birds  that  live  wider  afield  there  is  also 

[108] 


Natural  Telepathy 


an  explanation  that  your  senses  can  approve, 
though  it  is  probably  wrong  or  only  half  right: 
from  a  distance  they  chanced  to  see  wings  speeding 
in  the  direction  of  your  yard,  and  followed  them 
expectantly  because  wings  may  be  as  eloquent  as 
voices,  the  flight  of  a  bird  when  he  is  heading  for 
food  being  very  different  from  the  flight  of  the 
same  bird  when  he  is  merely  looking  for  food. 
But  these  most  rare  visitors,  kinglets  or  pine- 
finches  or  grosbeaks  or  bob-whites,  that  never  be- 
fore entered  your  yard,  and  that  would  not  be 
here  now  had  you  not  thought  to  scatter  food  this 
morning, — at  these  you  shake  your  head,  calling 
it  chance  or  Providence  or  mystery,  according  to 
your  mood  or  disposition.  To  me,  after  observing 
the  matter  closely  many  times,  the  reasonable  ex- 
planation of  these  rare  visitors  is  that  either  wild 
birds  know  how  to  send  forth  a  silent  food-call  or, 
more  likely,  that  the  excitement  of  feeding  birds 
spreads  powerfully  outward,  and  is  felt  by  other 
starving  birds,  alert  and  sensitive,  at  a  distance 
beyond  all  possible  range  of  sight  or  hearing.  By 
no  other  hypothesis  can  I  account  for  the  fact  that 
certain  wild  birds  make  their  appearance  in  my 
yard  at  a  moment  when  a  number  of  other  birds 
are  eagerly  feeding,  and  at  no  other  time,  though 
I  watch  for  them  from  one  year's  end  to  another. 
Like  every  other  explanation,  whether  of  stars 
[109] 


How  Animals  Talk 


or  starlings,  this  also  leads  to  a  greater  mystery. 
The  distance  at  which  such  a  summoning  call 
can  be  felt  by  others  must  be  straitly  limited,  else 
would  all  the  starving  birds  of  a  state  be  flocking 
to  my  yard  on  certain  mornings ;  and  the  force  by 
which  the  silent  call  is  projected  is  as  unknown  as 
the  rare  mental  ether  which  bears  its  waves  or 
vibrations  in  all  directions.  Yet  the  problem  need 
not  greatly  trouble  us,  since  the  answer,  when  it 
comes,  will  be  as  natural  as  breathing.  If  siknt 
or  telepathic  communication  exists  in  nature,  and 
I  think  it  surely  does,  the  mystery  before  us  is  no 
greater  than  that  which  daily  confronts  the  as- 
tronomer or  the  wireless  operator.  One  measures 
the  speed  of  light  from  Orion;  the  other  projects 
his  finger-touch  across  an  ocean;  but  neither  can 
tell  or  even  guess  the  quality  of  the  medium  by 
which  the  light  or  the  electric  wave  is  carried  to  its 
destination. 


THIS  is  a  chapter  on  the  wing  drill  of  birds,  the 
swarming  of  bees,  the  panics  and  unseasonal 
migrations  of  larger  or  smaller  beasts,  and  other 
curious  phenomena  in  which  the  wild  creatures  of 
a  flock  or  herd  all  act  in  unison,  doing  the  same 
thing  at  the  same  time,  as  if  governed  by  a  single 
will  rather  than  by  individual  motives.  If  it 
should  turn  out  that  the  single  will  were  expressed 
in  a  voice  or  cry,  or  even  in  a  projected  impulse, 
then  are  we  again  face  to  face  with  our  problem  of 
animal  communication. 

Of  the  fact  of  collective  action  there  is  no  doubt, 
many  naturalists  having  witnessed  it ;  and  there  is 
also  a  strictly  orthodox  explanation.  Thus,  when 

[in] 


How  Animals  Talk 


you  see  a  large  flock  of  crows  "drilling"  in  the 
spring  or  autumn,  rising  or  falling  or  wheeling  all 
together  with  marvelous  precision,  the  ornitholo- 
gists resolve  the  matter  by  saying  that  the  many 
crows  act  as  one  crow  because  they  follow  a  "col- 
lective impulse";  that  is,  because  the  same  im- 
pulse to  rise  or  fall  or  wheel  seizes  upon  them  all 
at  precisely  the  same  moment.  And  this  they  tell 
you  quite  simply,  as  if  pointing  out  an  obvious 
fact  of  natural  history,  when  in  reality  they  are 
showing  you  the  rarest  chimera  that  ever  looked 
out  of  a  vacuum. 

Now  the  wonderful  wing  drill  of  certain  birds 
has  something  in  it  which  I  cannot  quite  fathom 
or  understand,  not  even  with  a  miracle  of  collective 
impulse  to  help  me;  yet  I  have  observed  two 
characteristics  of  the  ordered  flight  which  may  help 
to  dispel  the  fog  of  assumption  that  now  envelops 
it.  The  first  is,  that  the  drill  is  seen  only  when 
an  uncommonly  large  number  of  birds  of  the  same 
kind  are  gathered  together,  on  a  sunny  day  of 
early  spring,  as  a  rule,  or  in  the  perfection  of 
autumn  weather. 

The  starlings1  furnish  us  an  excellent  example 

1 1  am  speaking  of  starlings  as  they  now  appear  in  southern  New  Eng- 
land. They  were  brought  from  Europe  a  few  years  ago,  and  are  multi- 
plying at  an  alarming  rate.  They  have  formed  some  curious  new  habits 
here;  even  their  voices  are  very  different  from  the  voices  of  starlings  as  I 
have  heard  them  in  Europe. 

[112] 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


of  this  peculiarity.  For  months  at  a  stretch  you 
see  them  about  the  house,  first  in  pairs,  next  in 
family  groups,  then  in  larger  companies,  made  up, 
I  think,  of  birds  raised  in  the  same  neighborhood 
and  probably  all  more  or  less  related ;  but  though 
you  watch  these  companies  attentively  from  dawn 
to  dusk,  you  shall  never  see  them  going  through 
any  unusual  wing  drill.  Then  comes  an  hour  when 
flocks  of  starlings  appear  on  all  sides,  heading 
to  a  common  center.  They  gather  in  trees  here  or 
there  about  the  edges  of  a  great  field  or  a  strip  of 
open  beach,  all  jabbering  like  the  blackbirds,  which 
they  imitate  in  their  cries,  flitting  about  in  cease- 
less commotion,  but  apparently  keeping  their 
family  or  tribal  organization  intact.  Suddenly, 
as  at  a  signal,  they  all  launch  themselves  toward 
the  center  of  the  field;  the  hundred  companies 
unite  in  one  immense  flock,  and  presto!  the  drill 
is  on.  The  birds  are  no  longer  individuals,  but  a 
single-minded  myriad,  which  wheels  or  veers  with 
such  precision  that  the  flash  of  their  ten-thousand 
wings  when  they  turn  is  like  the  flicker  of  a  signal- 
glass  in  the  sun. 

The  same  characteristic  of  uncommon  numbers 
holds  true  of  the  crows  and,  indeed,  of  all  other 
species  of  birds,  save  one,  that  ever  practise  the 
wing  drill.  Wild  geese  when  in  small  companies, 
each  a  family  unit,  have  a  regular  and  beautiful 

[H3l 


How  Animals  Talk 


flight  in  harrow-shaped  formation;  but  I  have 
never  witnessed  anything  like  a  wing  drill  among 
them  save  on  one  occasion,  when  a  thousand  or 
more  of  the  birds  were  gathered  together  for  a 
few  days  of  frolic  before  beginning  the  southern 
migration.  Nor  have  I  ever  seen  the  drill  among 
thrushes  or  warblers  or  sparrows  or  terns  or  sea- 
gulls, which  sometimes  gather  in  uncounted  num- 
bers, but  which  do  not,  apparently,  have  the  same 
motive  that  leads  crows  or  starlings  to  unite  in  a 
kind  of  rhythmic  air-dance  on  periodic  occasions. 
A  second  marked  characteristic  of  the  wing  drill 
is  that  it  is  invariably  a  manifestation  of  play  or 
sport,  and  that  the  individual  birds,  though  they 
keep  the  order  of  the  play  marvelously  well,  show 
in  their  looks  and  voices  a  suppressed  emotional 
excitement.  The  drill  is  never  seen  when  birds 
are  migrating  or  feeding  or  fleeing  from  danger, 
though  thousands  of  them  may  be  together  at  such 
a  time,  but  only  when  they  assemble  in  a  spirit  of 
fun  or  exercise,  and  their  bodily  needs  are  satisfied, 
and  the  weather  or  the  barometer  is  just  right, 
and  no  enemy  is  near  to  trouble  them.  Whatever 
their  motive  or  impulse,  therefore,  it  is  certainly 
not  universal  or  even  widespread  among  the  birds, 
since  most  of  them  do  not  practise  the  drill; 
nor  is  it  in  the  least  like  that  mysterious  impulse 
which  suddenly  sets  all  the  squirrels  of  a  region  in 

[114] 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


migration,  or  calls  the  lemmings  to  hurry  over 
plain  and  forest  and  mountain  till  they  all  drown 
themselves  in  the  distant  sea ;  for  no  sooner  is  the 
brief  drill  over  than  the  companies  scatter  quietly, 
each  to  its  own  place,  and  the  individual  birds 
are  again  alert,  inquisitive,  well  balanced,  pre- 
cisely as  they  were  before. 

The  drill  is  seen  at  its  best  among  the  plover, 
I  think;  and,  curiously  enough,  these  are  the  only 
birds  I  know  that  practise  it  frequently,  in  small 
or  large  numbers  and  in  all  weathers.  I  have  often 
watched  a  flock  come  sweeping  in  to  my  decoys, 
gurgling  like  a  thousand  fifes  with  bubbles  in  them ; 
and  never  have  I  met  these  perfectly  drilled  birds, 
which  stay  with  us  but  a  few  hours  on  their  rapid 
journey  from  the  far  north  to  the  far  south,  without 
renewed  wonder  at  their  wildness,  their  tameness, 
their  incomprehensible  ways.  That  you  may  vis- 
ualize our  problem  before  I  venture  an  explana- 
tion, here  is  what  you  may  see  if  you  can  forget 
your  gun  to  observe  nature  with  a  deeper  interest: 

You  have  risen  soon  after  midnight,  called  by 
the  storm  and  the  shrilling  of  passing  plover,  and 
long  before  daylight  you  are  waiting  for  the  birds 
on  the  burnt-over  plain.  Your  "stand"  is  a  hole 
in  the  earth,  hidden  by  a  few  berry-bushes;  and 
before  you,  at  right  angles  with  the  course  of  the 
storm  (for  plover  always  wheel  to  head  into  the 

[US] 


How  Animals  Talk 


wind  when  they  take  the  ground),  are  some  scores 
of  rudely  painted  decoys.  As  the  day  breaks  you 
see  against  the  east  a  motion  as  of  wings,  and  your 
call  rings  out  wild  and  clear,  to  be  echoed  on  the 
instant.  In  response  to  your  whistle  the  distant 
motion  grows  wildly  fantastic;  it  begins  to  whirl 
and  eddy,  as  if  a  wisp  of  fog  were  rolling  swiftly 
down-wind;  only  in  some  mysterious  fashion  the 
fog  holds  together,  and  in  it  are  curious  flickerings. 
Those  are  plover,  certainly;  no  other  birds  have 
that  perfect  unity  of  movement;  and  now,  since 
they  are  looking  for  the  source  of  the  call  they 
have  just  heard,  you  throw  your  cap  in  the  air  or 
wave  a  handkerchief  to  attract  attention.  There 
is  an  answering  flash  of  white  from  the  under  side 
of  their  wings  as  the  plover  catch  your  signal  and 
turn  all  at  once  to  meet  it.  Here  they  come, 
driving  in  at  terrific  speed  straight  at  you! 

It  is  better  to  stop  calling  now,  because  the 
plover  will  soon  see  your  decoys ;  and  these  birds 
when  on  the  ground  make  no  sound  except  a  low, 
pulsating  whistle  of  welcome  or  recall.  This  is 
uttered  but  seldom,  and  unless  you  can  imitate  it, 
which  is  not  likely,  your  whistling  will  do  no  good. 
Besides,  it  could  not  possibly  be  heard.  Listen  to 
that  musical  babel,  and  let  your  nerves  dance  to 
it !  In  all  nature  there  is  nothing  to  compare  for 
utter  wildness  with  the  fluting  of  incoming  plover. 

Fii61 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


On  they  come,  hundreds  of  quivering  lines, 
which  are  the  thin  edges  of  wings,  moving  as  one 
to  a  definite  goal.  Their  keen  eyes  caught  the 
first  wave  of  your  handkerchief  in  the  distance; 
and  now  they  see  their  own  kind  on  the  ground, 
as  they  think,  and  their  babel  changes  as  they 
begin  to  talk  to  them.  Suddenly,  and  so  in- 
stantaneously that  it  makes  you  blink,  there  is  a 
change  of  some  kind  in  every  quivering  pair  of 
wings.  At  first,  in  the  soft  light  of  dawn,  you  are 
sure  that  the  plover  are  still  coming,  for  you  did  not 
see  them  turn ;  but  the  lines  grow  smaller,  dimmer, 
and  you  know  that  every  bird  in  the  flock  has 
whirled,  as  if  at  command,  and  is  now  heading 
straight  away.  You  put  your  fingers  to  your  lips 
and  send  out  the  eery  plover  call  again  and  again ; 
but  it  goes  unheeded  in  that  tumult  of  better 
whistling.  The  quivering  lines  are  now  all  blurred 
in  one;  with  a  final  flicker  they  disappear  below 
a  rise  of  ground;  the  birds  are  gone,  and  you 
cease  your  vain  calling.  Then,  when  you  are 
thinking  you  will  never  see  that  flock  again,  a 
cloud  of  wings  shoot  up  from  the  plain  against  the 
horizon;  they  fall,  wheel,  rise  again  in  marvelous 
flight,  not  as  a  thousand  individuals  but  as  a  unit, 
and  the  lines  grow  larger,  clearer,  as  the  plover 
come  sweeping  back  to  your  decoys  once  more. 

Such  is  the  phenomenon  as  I  witnessed  it  re- 
9  [117] 


How  Animals  Talk 


peatedly  on  the  Nantucket  moors,  many  years 
ago.  The  only  way  I  can  explain  the  instantaneous 
change  of  flight  is  by  the  assumption,  no  longer 
strange  or  untested,  that  from  some  alarmed 
plover  on  the  fringe  or  at  the  center  of  the  flock 
a  warning  impulse  is  sent  out,  and  the  birds  all 
feel  and  obey  it  as  one  bird.  That  the  warning 
is  a  silent  one  I  am  convinced,  for  it  seems  im- 
possible that  any  peculiar  whistle  could  be  heard 
or  understood  in  that  wild  clamor  of  whistling. 
Nor  is  it  a  satisfactory  hypothesis  that  one  bird 
sees  the  danger  or  suspects  the  quality  of  the  de- 
coys, and  all  the  others  copy  his  swift  flight;  for 
in  that  case  there  must  be  succession  or  delay  or 
straggling  in  the  turning,  and  the  impression  left 
on  the  eye  is  not  of  succession,  but  of  almost 
perfect  unity  of  movement. 

The  only  other  explanation  of  the  plovers'  action 
is  the  one  commonly  found  in  the  bird-books,  to 
which  I  have  already  briefly  referred,  and  which 
we  must  now  examine  more  narrowly.  It  assumes 
that  all  the  birds  of  a  migrating  flock  are  moved 
not  by  individual  wills,  but  by  a  collective  impulse 
or  instinct,  which  affects  them  all  alike  at  the  same 
instant.  In  support  of  this  favorite  theory  we 
are  told  to  consider  the  bees,  which  are  said  to 
have  no  individual  motives,  and  no  need  for  them, 
since  they  blindly  follow  a  swarm  or  hive  instinct 

[n81 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


that  makes  them  all  precisely  alike  in  their  ac- 
tions. The  same  swarm  instinct  appears  often 
in  the  birds,  but  less  strongly,  because  they  are 
more  highly  developed  creatures,  with  more  need 
and  therefore  more  capacity  for  individual  in- 
centive. 

This  illustration  of  the  hive  is  offered  so  con- 
fidently and  accepted  so  readily,  as  if  it  were  an 
axiom  of  natural  history,  that  one  hesitates  to  dis- 
turb the  ancient  idol  in  its  wonted  seat.  Yet  one 
might  argue  that  any  living  impulse,  whether  in 
bees  or  birds,  must  proceed  from  a  living  source, 
and,  if  that  be  granted,  speculate  on  the  absorbing 
business  of  a  nature  or  a  heaven  that  should  be 
perpetually  interfering  in  behalf  of  every  earthly 
flock  or  swarm  or  herd  by  sending  the  appropriate 
impulse  at  precisely  the  right  moment.  And  when 
our  speculation  is  at  an  end,  I  submit  the  fact  that, 
when  I  have  broken  open  a  honey-tree  in  the  woods, 
one  bee  falls  upon  the  sweets  to  gorge  himself 
withal,  while  another  from  the  same  swarm  falls 
angrily  upon  me  and  dies  fighting;  which  seems  to 
upset  the  collective-impulse  idol  completely. 

I  must  confess  here  that  I  know  very  little  about 
bees.  They  are  still  a  mystery  to  me,  and  I  would 
rather  keep  silence  about  them  until  I  find  one  bee 
that  I  fancy  I  understand,  or  one  man  who  offers 
something  better  than  a  very  hazy  or  mystical 


How  Animals  Talk 


explanation  of  a  bee's  extraordinary  action.  Yet 
I  have  watched  long  hours  at  a  hive,  have  handled 
a  swarm  without  gloves  or  mask,  and  have  per- 
formed a  few  experiments — enough  to  convince 
me  that  the  collective-impulse  theory  does  not 
always  hold  true  to  fact  even  among  our  honey- 
makers.  Indeed,  I  doubt  that  it  ever  holds  true, 
or  that  there  is  in  nature  any  such  mysterious 
thing  as  a  swarm  or  flock  or  herd  impulse. 

In  the  first  place,  the  bees  of  the  same  swarm  do 
not  look  alike  or  act  alike  except  superficially;  at 
least  I  have  not  so  observed  them.  Study  the 
heads  or  the  feet  of  any  two  bees  under  a  glass, 
and  you  shall  find  as  much  variety  as  in  the  heads 
or  feet  of  any  other  two  creatures  of  the  same  kind, 
whether  brute  or  human.  The  lines  of  difference 
run  smaller,  to  be  sure ;  but  they  are  always  there. 
In  action  also  the  bees  are  variable;  they  do 
marvelously  wise  things  at  one  moment,  or  marvel- 
ously  stupid  things  at  another;  but  they  do  not 
all  and  always  do  the  same  thing  under  the  same 
circumstances,  for  when  I  have  experimented  with 
selected  bees  from  the  same  hive  I  have  noticed 
very  different  results;  which  leads  me  to  suspect 
that  even  here  I  am  dealing  with  individuals  rather 
than  with  detached  fragments  of  a  swarm.  It  is 
hard,  for  example,  to  make  a  trap  so  simple  that 
an  imprisoned  bee  will  find  his  way  out  of  it; 

[120] 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


but  when  by  great  ingenuity  you  do  at  last 
make  a  trap  so  very  simple  that  it  seems  any 
creature  with  legs  must  walk  out  by  the  open 
door,  perhaps  one  bee  in  five  will  do  the  trick; 
while  the  other  four  wait  patiently  until  they  die 
for  more  simplicity. 

Again,  while  your  eye  often  sees  unity  of  action 
among  the  wild  creatures,  neither  your  reading  nor 
your  own  reason  will  ever  reveal  a  scrap  of  positive 
evidence  that  there  is  in  nature  any  such  con- 
venient thing  (humanly  convenient,  that  is,  for 
explanations)  as  a  swarm  or  flock  instinct ;  though, 
like  the  mythical  struggle  for  existence,  we  are 
forever  hearing  about  it  or  building  theories  upon 
it.  So  far  as  we  know  anything  about  instinct, 
it  is  neither  collective  nor  incorporeal.  It  is,  to 
use  the  definition  of  Mark  Hopkins,  which  is  as 
good  as  another  and  beautifully  memorable,  "a 
propensity  prior  to  experience  and  independent 
of  instruction/'  And  the  only  needful  addition  to 
this  high-sounding  definition  is,  that  it  is  a  "pro- 
pensity" lodged  in  an  individual,  every  time.  It 
is  not  and  cannot  be  lodged  in  a  swarm  or  a  hive ; 
you  must  either  put  it  into  each  of  two  bees  or  else 
put  it  between  them,  leaving  them  both  untouched. 
In  other  words,  the  swarm  instinct  has  logically  no 
abiding-place  and  no  reality;  it  is  a  castle  in  the 
air  with  no  solid  foundation  to  rest  on. 

[121] 


How  Animals  Talk 


On  its  practical  or  pragmatic  side  also  the  theory 
is  a  failure,  since  the  things  bees  are  said  to  do  in 
obedience  to  an  incorporeal  swarm  instinct  are 
more  naturally  and  more  reasonably  explained  by 
other  causes.  Bees  swarm,  apparently,  in  the 
lead  or  under  the  influence  of  individuals;  and  it 
needs  only  a  pair  of  eyes  to  discover  that  there  are 
plenty  of  individual  laggards  and  blunderers  in  the 
process.  They  grow  angry  not  all  at  once,  but  suc- 
cessively; not  because  a  swarm  instinct  impels 
them  to  anger,  but  because  one  irritated  bee  gives 
off  a  pungent  odor  or  raises  a  militant  buzzing, 
and  the  others  smell  the  odor  or  hear  the  buzzing 
and  are  inflamed  by  it,  each  through  his  own 
senses  and  by  the  working  of  his  own  motives. 
On  a  hot  day  you  will  see  a  few  bees  fanning  air 
into  the  hive  with  their  wings,  and  when  these 
grow  weary  others  take  their  places ;  but  if  it  were 
a  swarm  instinct  that  impelled  them,  you  would 
see  all  the  bees  fanning  or  all  sweltering  at  the 
same  moment.  As  for  the  honey-making  instinct, 
on  any  early-spring  day  you  will  find  a  few  bees 
working  in  the  nearest  greenhouse,  while  the 
others,  which  are  supposed  to  be  governed  by  the 
same  collective  impulse,  are  comfortably  torpid 
in  the  hive  or  else  eating  honey  faster  than  these 
enterprising  ones  can  make  it. 

I  judge,  therefore,  that  the  communistic  bees 

[122] 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


have  some  individual  notions,  and  any  show  of 
individuality  is  so  at  variance  with  the  common- 
impulse  theory  that  it  seems  to  illustrate  Spen- 
cer's definition  of  tragedy,  which  is,  "a  theory 
slain  by  a  fact."  In  short,  bees  have  our  common 
social  instinct  highly  developed,  or  overdeveloped, 
and  possibly  they  have  also,  like  all  the  higher 
orders,  a  stronger  or  weaker  instinct  of  imitation ; 
but  these  are  very  different  matters,  more  natural 
and  more  consistent  with  the  facts  than  is  the 
alleged  swarm  instinct. 

A  scientific  friend,  the  most  observant  ornithol- 
ogist I  have  ever  met,  has  just  offered  an  interest- 
ing explanation  of  the  flock  or  herd  phenomena 
we  are  here  considering.  He  finds  little  evidence 
of  a  swarm  instinct,  as  distinct  from  our  familiar 
social  instinct;  but  he  has  often  marveled  at  the 
wing  drill  of  birds,  and  has  twice  witnessed  an 
alarm  or  warning  of  danger  spread  silently  among 
a  herd  of  scattered  beasts ;  and  he  accounts  for  the 
observed  facts  by  the  supposition  that  the  minds 
(or  what  corresponds  to  the  minds)  of  the  lower 
orders  are  often  moved  not  from  within,  but  from 
without — that  is,  not  by  instinct  or  by  sense 
impressions,  not  by  what  they  or  others  of  their 
kind  may  see  or  hear,  but  by  some  external  and 
unknown  influence.  My  caribou  rushed  away,  he 
thinks,  and  my  incoming  plover  turned  as  one 

[123] 


How  Animals  Talk 


bird  from  my  decoys,  because  a  warning  impulse 
fell  upon  them  at  a  moment  when  they  were  in 
danger,  but  knew  it  not;  and  they  obeyed  it,  as 
they  obey  all  their  impulses,  without  conscious 
thought  or  knowledge  of  what  they  are  doing  or 
why  they  are  doing  it. 

Here  is  some  suggestion  of  a  very  modern 
psychology  which  is  inclined  to  regard  the  mind 
as  a  thought-receiving  rather  than  as  a  thought- 
producing  instrument,  and  with  that  I  have  some 
sympathy;  but  here  is  also  a  rejuvenation  of  the 
incorporeal  swarm  instinct  and  other  fantastic  or 
romantic  notions  of  animals  which  preclude  ob- 
servation. If  the  anima  of  a  bird  or  beast  is  so 
constituted  that  it  can  receive  impulses  from  a 
mysterious  and  unknown  source,  what  is  to  pre- 
vent it  from  receiving  such  silent  impulses  from 
another  anima  like  itself?  And  why  seek  an  un- 
seen agent  for  the  warning  to  my  caribou  or  my 
plover  when  one  of  the  creatures  saw  the  danger  and 
was  enough  moved  by  it  to  sound  a  mental  tocsin  ? 

The  trouble  with  my  friend's  explanation,  and 
with  all  others  I  have  thus  far  heard  or  read,  is 
twofold.  First,  like  the  swarm-impulse  theory, 
it  really  explains  nothing,  but  avoids  one  mystery 
or  difficulty  by  taking  refuge  in  another.  There 
was  a  Hindu  philosopher  who  used  to  teach,  after 
the  manner  of  his  school,  that  the  earth  stood 

J«4l 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


fast  because  it  rested  on  the  back  of  a  great 
elephant ;  which  was  satisfactory  till  a  thoughtful 
child  asked,  "But  the  elephant,  what  does  he 
stand  on?"  So  when  I  see  intelligent  caribou 
or  plover  fleeing  from  an  unsensed  danger,  and  am 
told  that  they  have  received  an  impulse  from 
without,  I  am  bound  to  ask,  "Where  did  that  im- 
pulse come  from,  and  who  sent  it?"  For  emo- 
tional impulses  do  not  drop  like  rain  from  the 
clouds,  or  fall  like  apples  from  unseen  trees ;  they 
must  have  their  source  in  a  living,  intelligent  being 
of  some  kind,  who  must  feel  the  impulse  before 
sending  it  to  others.  No  other  explanation  is 
humanly  comprehensible. 

This  leads  to  the  second  objection  to  the  theory 
of  external  impulse,  and  to  every  other  notion 
of  a  collective  or  incorporeal  swarm  instinct — 
namely,  that  it  contradicts  all  the  previous  ex- 
perience of  the  wild  creature,  or  at  least  all  educa- 
tive experience,  which  lies  plain  and  clear  to  our 
observation.  To  each  bird  and  animal  are  given 
individual  senses,  individual  wit  and  a  personal 
anima;  and  each  begins  his  mortal  experience  not 
in  a  great  flock  or  herd,  but  always  in  solitary 
fashion,  under  the  care  and  guidance  of  a  mother 
animal  that  has  a  saving  knowledge  of  a  world 
in  which  the  little  one  is  a  stranger.  Thus,  I 
watch  the  innocent  fawn  when  it  begins  to  follow 

[125] 


How  Animals  Talk 


the  wary  old  doe,  or  the  fledgling  snipe  as  it  leaves 
the  nest  under  expert  guidance,  or  the  wonder-eyed 
cub  coming  forth  from  its  den  at  the  call  of  the 
gaunt  old  she-wolf.  In  each  case  I  see  a  mother 
intelligently  caring  for  her  young,  leading  them  to 
food,  warding  them  from  danger,  calling  them  now 
to  assemble  or  now  to  scatter;  and  before  my  eyes 
these  ignorant  youngsters  quickly  learn  to  adapt 
themselves  to  the  mother's  ways  and  to  obey  her 
every  signal.  Sometimes  I  see  them  plainly  when 
some  manner  of  silent  communication  passes 
among  them  (something  perhaps  akin  to  that 
which  passes  when  you  catch  a  friend's  eye  and 
send  your  thought  or  order  to  him  across  a  crowded 
room),  and  it  has  even  seemed  to  me,  as  recorded 
elsewhere  in  our  observation  of  wolf  and  fox  dens, 
that  the  young  understand  this  silent  communica- 
tion more  readily  than  they  learn  the  meaning  of 
audible  cries  expressive  of  food  or  danger. 

Such  is  the  wild  creature's  earliest  experience, 
his  training  to  accommodate  himself  to  the  world, 
and  to  ways  that  wiser  creatures  of  his  own  kind 
have  found  good  in  the  world.  When  his  first 
winter  draws  near  he  is  led  by  his  mother  to  join 
the  herd  or  pack  or  migrating  flock;  and  he  is 
then  ready  not  for  some  mysterious  new  herd  or 
flock  instinct,  but  for  the  same  old  signals  that 
have  served  well  to  guide  or  warn  him  ever  since 

[126] 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


he  was  born.  I  conclude,  therefore,  naturally  and 
reasonably,  that  my  caribou  broke  away  and  my 
incoming  plover  changed  their  flight  because  one 
of  their  number  detected  danger  and  sent  forth  a 
warning  impulse,  which  the  others  obeyed  promptly 
because  they  were  accustomed  to  just  such  com- 
munications. There  was  nothing  unnatural  or 
mysterious  or  even  new  in  the  experience.  So  far 
as  I  can  see  or  judge,  there  is  no  place  or  need  for  a 
collective  herd  or  flock  impulse,  and  the  birds 
and  beasts  have  no  training  or  experience  by  which 
to  interpret  such  an  impulse  if  it  fell  upon  them 
out  of  heaven. 

Our  human  experience,  moreover,  especially  that 
which  befalls  on  the  borderland  of  the  subconscious 
world  where  the  wild  creatures  mostly  live,  may 
give  point  and  meaning  to  our  natural  philosophy. 
There  are  emotions,  desires,  impulses  which  may 
be  conveyed  by  shouting;  and  there  are  others 
which  may  well  be  told  without  shouting,  or  even 
without  words.  A  cheerful  man  radiates  cheerful- 
ness; a  strong  man,  strength;  a  brave  man, 
courage  (we  do  not  know  to  what  extent  or  with 
what  limitations);  and  a  woman  may  be  more 
irritated  by  a  man  who  says  nothing  than  by  a 
man  who  says  too  much.  These  common  daily 
trials  may  be  as  side-lights  on  the  tremendous  fact 
that  love,  fear,  hate, — every  intense  emotion  is  a 

[127] 


How  Animals  Talk 


force  in  itself,  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with,  apart 
from  the  cry  or  the  look  by  which  it  is  expressed ; 
that  all  such  emotions  project  themselves  outward ; 
and  that  possibly,  or  very  probably,  there  is  some 
definite  medium  to  convey  them,  as  an  unknown 
medium  which  we  call  "ether"  conveys  the  waves 
of  light. 

It  is  true  that  we  habitually  receive  such  emo- 
tional impulses  from  others  by  means  of  our  eyes 
or  ears;  but  sometimes  we  apparently  imbibe 
them  through  our  skin,  as  Anthony  Trollope  said 
he  learned  Latin,  and  once  in  a  way  we  receive  them 
from  another  without  knowing  or  thinking  of  the 
process  at  all.  It  is  noteworthy  that  the  most 
companionable  people  in  the  world  are  silent 
people,  especially  a  silent  friend,  and  that  the 
silence  of  any  man  is  invariably  more  eloquent 
than  his  speech.  The  silence  of  one  man  rests  you 
like  a  melody ;  the  silence  of  another  bores  you  to 
yawning,  perhaps  because  it  is  a  "dead"  silence; 
the  quietude  of  a  third  excites  your  curiosity  to 
such  an  extent  that,  for  once  in  your  life,  you 
behave  like  a  perfectly  natural  animal;  that  is, 
you  go  round  the  silent  one,  as  it  were,  view  him 
mentally  from  all  sides,  sniff  at  his  opinions  from 
leeward,  whir  your  wings  in  his  face  like  a  sparrow, 
or  stamp  your  foot  at  him  like  a  rabbit — all  this 
to  stir  him  up  and  to  uncover  what  interesting 

[128] 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


thing  lies  behind  his  silence.  And  why?  Simply 
because  every  living  man  is  silently,  unconsciously 
projecting  his  real  thought  or  feeling,  and  you  are 
unconsciously  understanding  it  or  else  making  a 
vain  conscious  effort  in  that  direction. 

Such  experiences  are  commonly  confined  to  a 
room,  to  the  circle  of  an  open  fire;  but  they  are 
not  limited  by  necessity  to  any  narrow  reach,  since 
there  is  nothing  in  a  wall  to  hinder  a  man's  love 
or  hate  from  passing  through,  or  in  the  air  to 
check  its  far-going,  or  in  the  nature  of  another 
man  to  prevent  its  reception.  The  influence  of 
one  person's  unvoiced  will  or  purpose  or  warning 
or  summons  upon  another  person  at  a  distance, 
should  it  turn  out  more  common  than  we  now  be- 
lieve possible  because  of  our  habit  of  speech, 
would  be  nothing  unnatural  or  mysterious,  but 
rather  a  true  working  of  the  subconscious  or 
animal  mind,  which  had  its  own  way  of  communi- 
cation before  ever  speech  was  invented. 

Whitman,  who  sometimes  got  hold  of  the  tail 
end  of  philosophy  (and  who  was  wont  to  believe 
he  could  drag  it  out,  like  a  trapped  woodchuck, 
and  whirl  it  around  his  head  with  barbaric  whoops), 
was  often  seen  at  the  burrow  of  this  thought- 
transference  doctrine: 

These  yearnings  why  are  they?  these  thoughts  in  the  dark- 
ness why  are  they? 

[129] 


How  Animals  Talk 


Why  are  there  men  and  women  that  while  they  are  near 

me  the  sunlight  expands  my  blood? 
Why  when  they  leave  me  do  my  pennants  of  joy  sink  flat 

and  lank? 
Why  are  there  trees  I   never  walk  under  but  large  and 

melodious  thoughts  descend  upon  me? 
What  is  it  that  I  interchange  so  suddenly  with  strangers? 
What  with  some  driver  as  I  ride  on  the  seat  by  his  side? 
What  with  some  fisherman  drawing  his  seine  by  the  shore  as 

I  walk  by  and  pause? 
What  gives  me  to  be  free  to  woman's  and  man's  good-will? 

what  gives  them  to  be  free  to  mine? 

Again,  our  familiar  human  experience  may  throw 
some  clearer  light  than  ever  comes  from  the 
laboratory  of  animal  psychologists  upon  the  action 
of  gregarious  brutes  in  their  so-called  blind  panics, 
when  they  are  said  to  be  governed  by  some  ex- 
traneous or  non-individual  herd  impulse.  How 
such  a  theory  originated  is  a  puzzle  to  one  who 
has  closely  observed  animals  in  the  open,  since 
their  panics  are  never  "blind,"  and  their  "ex- 
traneous" impulse  may  often  be  traced  to  an 
alarmed  animal  of  their  own  kind,  or  even  to  an 
excited  human  being,  whose  emotions  are  animal- 
like  both  in  their  manifestation  and  in  their  irritat- 
ing effect.  A  dog  is  more  easily  roused  by  human 
than  by  canine  excitement.  A  frightened  rider 
sends  his  fear  or  irresolution  in  exaggerated  form 
into  the  horse  beneath  him.  The  herd  of  swine 
that  ran  down  a  steep  place  into  the  sea  were 

[130] 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


possessed,  I  should  say,  not  by  exorcised  demons, 
but  by  the  hysteria  received  directly  from  some 
man  or  woman  of  the  excited  crowd  in  the  im- 
mediate neighborhood.  Panic  is  more  infectious 
than  any  fever,  and  knows  no  barriers  between 
brute  and  human.  Indeed,  in  a  frightened  crowd 
in  the  Subway,  in  a  theater  where  smoke  appears, 
or  in  any  other  scene  of  emotional  excitement,  you 
may  in  a  few  minutes  observe  actions  more  pan- 
icky, more  suggestive  of  a  herd  impulse  (if  there  be 
such  a  fantastic  thing  in  orderly  nature),  than 
can  be  seen  in  a  whole  lifetime  of  watching  wild 
animals. 

In  my  head  at  this  moment  is  the  vivid  impres- 
sion of  a  night  when  I  was  caught  and  carried  away 
by  a  crowd  of  Italian  socialists,  twenty  thousand 
frenzied  men  and  a  few  ferocious  women,  that  first 
eddied  like  a  storm-tide  about  the  great  square 
under  the  cathedral  at  Milan,  howling,  shriek- 
ing, imprecating,  and  then  poured  tumultuously 
through  choked  streets  to  hurl  paving-blocks  at 
the  innocent  roof  of  the  railroad  station,  as  at  a 
symbol  of  government.  The  roof  was  of  glass, 
and  the  clattering  smash  of  it  seemed  to  get  on  the 
nerves  of  men,  like  the  cry  of  sick-em!  to  an  ex- 
cited dog,  rousing  them  to  a  senseless  fury  of 
destruction.  Clear  and  thrilling  above  the  tumult 
a  bugle  sang,  like  a  note  from  heaven,  and  into 

[131] 


How  Animals  Talk 


the  seething  mass  of  humanity  charged  a  squadron 
of  cavalry,  striking  left  or  right  with  the  flats  of 
their  sabers,  raising  a  new  hubbub  of  shrieks  and 
imprecations  as  the  weaker  were  trampled  down. 
Fear?  That  crowd  knew  no  more  of  fear  just  then 
than  an  upturned  hive  of  bees.  They  met  the 
charge  with  a  roar,  a  hoarse,  solid  shout  that  seemed 
to  sweep  the  cavalry  away  like  smoke  in  the  wind. 
Unarmed  men  swarmed  at  the  horses  like  enraged 
baboons,  hurling  stones  or  curses  as  they  went. 
The  rush  ended  in  a  triumphant  yell,  and  riderless 
horses,  their  eyes  and  nostrils  aflame,  went  plung- 
ing, kicking,  squealing  through  the  pandemonium. 

There  must  have  been  something  tremendously 
animal  in  the  scene,  after  all;  for  when  I  recall 
it  now  I  see,  as  if  Memory  had  carved  her  statue 
of  the  event,  an  upreared  horse  with  a  crumpled 
rider  toppling  from  the  saddle;  and  I  hear  not  the 
shouts  or  curses  of  men,  but  the  horrible  scream  of 
a  maddened  brute. 

It  was  the  night,  many  years  ago,  when  news  of 
disaster  to  the  Italian  army  at  Adowa  broke  loose, 
after  being  long  suppressed,  and  I  learned  then 
for  the  first  time  what  emotional  excitement 
means  when  the  gates  are  all  down.  One  had  to 
hold  himself  against  it,  as  against  a  flood  or  a 
mighty  wind.  To  yield,  to  lose  self-control  even 
for  an  instant,  was  to  find  oneself  howling,  reach- 

[132] 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


ing  for  paving-blocks,  seeking  an  enemy,  lifting  a 
bare  fist  against  charging  horse  or  swinging  steel, 
like  the  other  lunatics.  I  caught  a  man  by  the 
shoulders,  held  him,  and  bade  him  in  his  own 
language  tell  me  what  the  row  was  about;  but  he 
only  stared  at  me  wildly,  his  mouth  open.  I 
caught  another,  and  he  struck  at  my  face ;  a  third, 
and  he  shrieked  like  a  trapped  beast.  Only  one 
gave  me  a  half-coherent  answer,  a  man  whom  I 
dragged  from  under  a  saber  and  pushed  into  a  side- 
street.  His  dear  Ambrogio  had  been  conscripted 
by  the  government,  he  howled  (I  suppose  they 
had  sent  his  son  or  brother  with  a  disaffected 
Milanese  regiment  on  the  African  adventure),  and 
they  were  all  robbers,  oppressors,  murderers — he 
finished  by  jerking  loose  from  my  grasp  and 
hurling  himself,  yelling,  into  the  mob  again. 

Had  I  been  a  visiting  caribou,  watching  that 
amazing  scene  and  knowing  nothing  of  its  motive, 
I  might  easily  have  concluded  that  some  mysteri- 
ous herd  impulse  was  driving  all  these  creatures  to 
they  knew  not  what;  but,  being  human,  I  knew 
perfectly  well  that  even  this  unmanageable  crowd 
had  taken  its  cue  from  some  leader;  that  the  sense- 
less emotion  which  inflamed  them  had  originated 
with  individuals,  who  had  some  ground  for  their 
passion;  and  that  from  the  individual  the  excite- 
ment spread  in  pestilential  fashion  until  the  whole 
10  [133] 


How  Animals  Talk 


mob  caught  it  and  bent  to  it,  as  a  field  of  grass 
bends  to  the  storm. 

Therefore  (and  I  hope  you  keep  the  thread  of 
logic  through  a  long  digression),  when  I  go  as  a 
man  among  caribou  or  wolves  or  plover  or  crows, 
and  see  the  whole  herd  or  pack  or  flock  acting 
as  one,  as  if  swayed  by  a  single  will,  I  see  no 
reason  why  I  should  evoke  an  incorporeal  swarm 
impulse,  or  "call  a  spirit  from  the  vasty  deep"  of 
the  unknown  to  explain  their  similarity  of  action, 
since  there  are  natural  causes  which  may  account 
for  the  matter  perfectly — familiar  causes,  too, 
which  still  influence  men  and  women  as  they  in- 
fluence the  remote  wood  folk. 

No,  this  is  not  a  new  animal  psychology;  it  is 
rather  an  attempt  to  banish  the  delusion  that 
there  is  any  such  thing  as  a  distinct  animal 
psychology.  Science  has  many  forms,  and  still 
plenty  of  delusions,  but  there  is  a  basic  principle 
to  which  she  holds  steadily — namely,  that  Nature 
is  of  one  piece  because  her  laws  are  constant. 
It  follows  that,  if  you  know  anything  of  a  surety 
about  your  own  mind,  you  may  confidently  apply 
the  knowledge  to  any  other  mind  in  the  universe, 
whether  in  the  heavens  above  or  the  earth  beneath 
or  the  waters  under  the  earth.  The  only  ques- 
tion is,  How  far  may  the  term  "mind"  be  prop- 
erly applied  to  the  brute  ? 

[i34] 


The  Swarm  Spirit 


That  unanswered  question  does  not  immediately 
concern  us,  for  in  speaking  of  mind  we  commonly 
mean  the  conscious  or  reasoning  human  article, 
and  we  are  dealing  here  with  the  subconscious 
mind,  which  seems  to  work  after  the  same  fashion 
whether  it  appears  on  two  legs  or  four.  A  dog 
does  not  know  why  he  becomes  excited  in  a  com- 
motion that  does  not  personally  concern  him,  or 
why  he  feels  impelled  to  hasten  to  an  outcry  from 
an  unknown  source,  or  why  he  looks  up,  contrary 
to  all  his  habits,  when  everybody  else  is  looking 
up;  and  neither  does  a  man  know  why  he  does 
just  such  things.  Man  and  brute  both  act  in 
obedience  to  something  deeper,  more  primal  and 
more  dependable  than  reason,  and  in  this  subcon- 
scious field  they  are  akin;  otherwise  it  would  be 
impossible  for  a  man  ever  to  train  or  to  under- 
stand a  brute,  and  our  companionable  dogs  would 
be  as  distant  as  the  seraphim. 

When,  therefore,  the  same  unreasoning  actions 
that  are  attributed  to  a  mysterious  collective  im- 
pulse among  birds  or  animals  are  found  among 
men  to  depend  on  a  succession  of  individual  im- 
pulses, it  is  good  psychology  as  well  as  good  nat- 
ural history  to  dismiss  the  whole  herd  instinct 
as  another  thoughtless  myth.  The  familiar  social 
and  imitative  instincts,  the  contagion  of  excite- 
ment, the  outward  projection  of  emotional  im- 

[i35l 


How  Animals  Talk 


pulses,  the  sensitive  bodily  nature  of  an  animal 
which  enables  him  to  respond  to  such  impulses 
even  when  they  are  unaccompanied  by  a  voice  or 
cry, — these  are  comparatively  simple  and  "sen- 
sible" matters  which  explain  all  the  phenomena 
of  flock  or  herd  life  more  naturally  and  more 
reasonably. 


VI 


IOOKING  back  a  moment  on  our  trail  of 
L/  animal  "talk"  before  following  it  onward, 
we  see,  first,  that  birds  and  beasts  have  certain 
audible  cries  which  convey  a  more  or  less  definite 
meaning  of  food  or  danger  or  assembly;  and 
second,  that  they  apparently  have  also  some  "tel- 
epathic" faculty  of  sending  emotional  impulses 
to  others  of  their  kind  at  a  distance.  The  last 
has  not  been  proved,  to  be  sure;  we  have  seen 
little  more  than  enough  to  establish  it  as  a  working 
hypothesis;  but  whether  we  study  science  or  his- 
tory or  an  individual  bird  or  beast,  it  is  better  to 
follow  some  integrating  method  or  principle  than 
to  blunder  around  in  a  chaos  of  unrelated  details. 


How  Animals  Talk 


And  the  hypothesis  of  silent  communication  cer- 
tainly "works/'  since  it  helps  greatly  to  clarify 
certain  observed  phenomena  of  animal  life  that 
are  otherwise  darkly  mysterious. 

When  the  same  dimly  defined  telepathic  power 
appears  in  a  man  or  woman — so  rarely  that  we  are 
filled  with  wonder,  as  in  the  shadow  of  a  great 
mystery  or  a  great  discovery — it  is  not  a  new  but 
a  very  old  matter,  I  think,  being  merely  a  survival 
or  reappearance  of  a  faculty  that  may  have  once 
been  in  common  use  among  gregarious  creatures. 
All  men  seem  to  have  some  hint  or  suggestion  of 
telepathy  in  them,  as  shown  by  their  ability  to 
"speak  with  their  eyes"  or  to  influence  their 
children  by  a  look;  and  the  few  who  have  enough 
of  it  to  be  conspicuous  receive  it,  undoubtedly, 
by  some  law  or  freak  of  heredity,  such  as  enables 
one  man  in  a  million  to  wag  his  ears,  or  one 
in  a  thousand  to  follow  a  subconscious  sense  of 
direction  so  confidently  that,  after  wandering 
about  the  big  woods  all  day,  he  turns  at  nightfall 
and  heads  straight  for  his  camp  like  a  homing 
pigeon.  The  rest  of  us,  meanwhile,  by  employing 
speech  exclusively  to  express  thought  or  emotion, 
and  by  habitually  depending  on  five  senses  for  all 
our  impressions  of  the  external  world,  have  not 
only  neglected  but  even  lost  all  memory  of  the 
gift  that  once  was  ours.  As  an  inevitable  conse- 

[138] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


quence  Nature  has  taken  her  gift  away,  as  she 
atrophies  a  muscle  that  is  no  longer  used,  or  de- 
vitalizes the  nerve  of  sight  in  creatures,  such  as 
the  fishes  of  Mammoth  Cave,  that  have  lived  long 
time  in  darkness. 

In  previous  chapters  we  have  noted,  as  rare 
examples  of  telepathy  in  human  society,  that  a 
mother  may  at  times  know  when  an  absent  son 
or  husband  is  in  danger,  or  that  an  African  savage 
often  knows  when  a  stranger  is  approaching  his 
village  hid  in  the  jungle;  but  there  is  another  mani- 
festation of  the  same  faculty  which  is  much  more 
common,  and  which  we  have  thus  far  overlooked, 
leaving  it  as  an  odd  and  totally  unrelated  thing 
without  explanation.  I  refer  to  the  man,  known 
in  almost  every  village,  who  has  some  special  gift 
for  training  or  managing  animals,  who  seems  to 
know  instinctively  what  goes  on  in  a  brute's  head, 
and  who  can  send  his  own  will  or  impulse  into  the 
lower  mind.  I  would  explain  that  unrelated  man, 
naturally,  by  the  simple  fact  or  assumption  that 
he  has  inherited  more  than  usual  of  the  animals' 
gift  of  silent  communication. 

I  knew  one  such  man,  a  harmless,  half-witted 
creature,  who  loved  to  roam  the  woods  alone  by 
day  or  night,  and  whom  the  wild  birds  and  beasts 
met  with  hardly  a  trace  of  the  fear  or  suspicion 
they  manifest  in  presence  of  other  human  beings. 

[i39] 


How  Animals  Talk 


He  was  always  friendly,  peaceable,  childlike,  and 
unconsciously  or  subconsciously,  I  think,  he  could 
tame  or  influence  these  wild  spirits  by  letting  them 
feel  his  own. 

So  also  could  an  old  negro,  an  ex-slave,  with 
whom  I  used  to  go  fox-hunting  in  my  student  days. 
He  could  train  a  dog  or  a  colt  in  a  tenth  part  of  the 
time  required  by  ordinary  men,  and  he  used  no 
whip  or  petting  or  feeding,  or  any  other  device 
commonly  employed  by  professional  trainers. 
At  times,  indeed,  his  animals  acted  as  if  trained 
from  the  moment  he  touched  or  spoke  to  them. 
He  had  a  mongrel  lot  of  dogs,  cats,  chickens,  pigs, 
cows  and  horses ;  but  they  were  a  veritable  happy 
family  (on  a  cold  night  his  cats  would  sleep  with 
a  setting  hen,  if  they  could  find  one,  or  otherwise 
with  the  foxhounds),  and  to  see  them  all  running 
to  meet  "Uncle"  when  he  came  home,  or  following 
at  his  heels  or  doing  what  he  told  them,  was  to 
wonder  what  strange  animal  language  he  was 
master  of. 

At  daybreak  one  winter  morning  I  entered  the 
old  negro's  kitchen  very  quietly,  and  had  a  fire 
going  and  coffee  sending  forth  its  aroma  before 
I  heard  him  creaking  down  the  stairs.  I  had 
traveled  "across  lots,"  making  no  sound  in  the 
new-fallen  snow,  and,  as  I  approached  the  house, 
had  purposely  kept  its  dark  bulk  between  me  and 

[140] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


the  dogs,  which  were  asleep  in  their  kennel  some 
distance  away.  For  a  time  all  was  quiet  as  only 
a  winter  dawn  can  be;  but  as  we  sat  down  to 
breakfast  one  of  the  hounds  with  a  big  bass  voice 
suddenly  broke  out  in  an  earth-shaking  jubilation. 
The  other  hounds  quickly  caught  up  the  clamor, 
yelling  as  if  they  had  just  jumped  a  fox,  while  two 
dogs  of  another  breed  were  strangely  silent;  and 
then  Toleon  added  his  bit  to  the  tumult  by 
stamping,  whinnying  and  finally  kicking  lustily 
on  the  boards  of  his  stall.  Toleon,  by  the  way, 
was  an  old  white  horse  that  Uncle  used  to  ride 
(he  was  "gittin'  too  rheumaticky,"  he  said,  to 
hunt  with  me  afoot),  and  this  sober  beast  was  fair 
crazy  to  join  the  chase  whenever  a  fox  was  afoot. 
The  negro  paid  no  attention  to  the  noise ;  but  as 
it  went  on  increasing,  and  Toleon  whinnyed  more 
wildly,  and  the  big-voiced  hound  kept  up  a  con- 
tinuous bellow  that  might  have  roused  the  seven 
sleepers,  the  unseemly  racket  got  on  my  nerves, 
so  early  in  the  day. 

'What  the  mischief  is  the  matter  with  Jum 
this  morning?"  I  demanded. 

"Matter?  Mischief?"  echoed  Uncle,  as  if  sur- 
prised I  did  not  understand  such  plain  animal 
talk.  "Why,  ol'  Jum's  a-gwine  fox-huntin'  dis 
mawny.  He  reckons  he  knows  what  we-all's  up 
to:  and  now  de  yother  dawgs  an'  Toleon  dey 

[141] 


How  Animals  Talk 


reckons  dey  knows  it,  too.  Jum's  tole  um.  Dat's 
all  de  matter  an*  de  mischief." 

"But  how  in  the  world  should  he  know?  You 
never  go  hunting  now  unless  I  tempt  you,  and 
none  of  the  dogs  saw  or  heard  me  come  in,"  I 
objected. 

Uncle  chuckled  at  that,  chuckled  a  long  time, 
as  if  it  were  a  good  joke.  "Trust  ol'  Jum  ter 
know  when  we-all's  gwine  fox-huntin',"  he  said. 
"You  jes'  trust  him.  I  specks  he  kinder  pick  de 
idee  outer  de  air  soon's  we  thunk  it,  same's  he 
pick  a  fox  scent.  'Tain't  no  use  tryin'  ter  lie 
ter  Jum,  'cause  you  can't  fool  'im  nohow.  No, 
sir,  when  dat  ol'  dawg's  eroun',  you  don'  wanter 
think  erbout  nothin'  you  don'  want  'im  ter  know." 

I  had  often  marveled  at  Uncle,  but  now  sud- 
denly I  thought  I  understood  him.  In  his  un- 
conscious confession  that  he  thought  or  felt  with 
his  animals,  rather  than  spoke  English  to  them,  was 
probably  the  whole  secret  of  his  wonderful  gift 
of  training. 

The  same  "secret"  is  shared  by  the  few  men 
who  have  the  gift  of  managing  horses,  and  who  can 
do  more  by  a  word  or  even  a  look  than  another 
man  by  bit  and  harness.  I  have  heard  the  gift 
described  by  a  professional  horse-trainer  as  the 
"power  of  the  human  eye";  but  that  is  nonsense 
set  to  melodrama.  An  eye  is  a  bit  of  jelly,  and 

[142] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


means  nothing  without  a  will  or  communicating 
impulse  behind  it.  When  the  spirit  of  a  horse  is 
once  broken  (and  most  of  them  are  broken  rather 
than  trained  by  our  methods)  almost  anybody  can 
manage  him,  the  blind  as  well  as  the  seeing;  but 
when  a  horse  keeps  the  spirit  of  his  wild  ancestors, 
their  timidity,  their  flightiness,  their  hair-trigger 
tendency  to  shy  or  to  bolt,  then  I  envy  the  man 
who  can  cross  the  gulf  of  ages  and  put  something 
of  his  own  steadiness  into  the  nervous  brute. 

This  steadying  process  seems  to  be  wholly  a 
matter  of  spirit,  so  far  as  I  have  observed  it,  and 
whatever  passes  from  man  to  brute  passes  directly, 
without  need  of  audible  speech.  For  example,  a 
friend  of  mine,  a  very  quiet  man  of  few  words, 
once  brought  home  a  magnificent  "blooded" 
horse  which  he  had  bought  for  a  song  because 
"nobody  could  handle  him."  The  horse  was  not 
vicious  in  any  way,  but  seemed  to  have  a  crazy 
impulse  to  run  himself  to  death — an  impulse  so 
strong  that  even  now,  when  he  is  past  twenty 
years  old,  he  cannot  be  turned  loose  for  a  moment 
in  a  farm  pasture.  He  had  never  been  driven  save 
with  a  powerful  curb ;  even  so,  he  would  drag  the 
carriage  along  by  the  reins,  and  an  hour  of  such 
driving  left  a  strong  man's  arms  half  paralyzed 
by  the  strain.  Yet  at  the  first  trial  his  new  owner 
put  a  soft  rubber  bit  in  his  mouth,  flipped  the  lines 

[I43l 


How  Animals  Talk 


loosely  across  his  back,  and  controlled  him  by  a 
word. 

Some  years  later  I  was  riding  behind  that  same 
horse,  jogging  quietly  along  a  country  road,  when 
my  friend,  with  an  odd  twinkle  in  his  eye,  said, 
"Take  the  reins  a  moment  while  I  get  out  this 
robe."  I  took  them,  and  what  followed  seemed 
like  magic  or  bedevilment.  I  had  noticed  that  the 
reins  were  loose,  just  "feeling"  the  horse's  mouth; 
I  shifted  them  to  my  hand  very  quietly,  without 
stirring  a  hair,  and  blinders  on  the  bridle  prevented 
the  horse  from  seeing  the  transfer.  Yet  hardly 
had  I  touched  them  when  something  from  my 
hand  (or  from  my  soul,  for  aught  I  know)  flowed 
along  the  leather  and  filled  the  brute  with  fire. 
He  flung  up  his  head,  as  if  I  had  driven  spurs  into 
him,  and  was  away  like  a  shot. 

Again,  I  was  crossing  the  public  square  of 
Nantucket  one  morning  when  I  saw  a  crowd  of 
excited  men  and  boys  eddying  at  a  safe  distance 
around  a  horse — an  ugly,  biting  brute  that  had 
once  almost  torn  the  side  of  my  face  off  when  I 
passed  too  close  to  him,  minding  my  own  affairs. 
Now  he  was  having  one  of  his  regular  tantrums, 
squealing,  kicking,  plunging  or  backing,  while  his 
driver,  who  had  leaped  to  the  ground,  alternately 
lashed  and  cursed  him.  I  heard  an  angry  voice 
near  me  utter  the  single  word  "  Fools !"  and  saw  a 

[i44l 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


stranger  brush  some  men  aside  and  stand  directly 
in  front  of  the  horse,  which  grew  quiet  on  the 
instant.  The  stranger  went  nearer,  pulled  the 
horse's  head  down  and  laid  his  face  against  it; 
and  there  they  stood,  man  and  brute,  like  carved 
statues.  It  was  as  if  one  were  whispering  a 
secret,  and  the  other  listening.  Then  the  man 
said,  "Come  along,  boy,"  and  walked  down  the 
square,  the  horse  following  at  his  heels  like  a 
trained  dog. 

Watching  the  scene,  my  first  thought  was  that 
the  horse  recognized  a  former  and  kinder  master; 
but  the  man  assured  me,  when  I  followed  him  up, 
that  he  had  never  spoken  to  the  animal  till  that 
moment,  and  that  he  could  do  the  same  with  any 
refractory  horse  he  had  ever  met.  "Try  it  with 
that  one,"  I  said  promptly,  pointing  to  a  nervous 
horse  that,  feeling  the  excitement  of  the  recent 
affair,  was  jerking  and  frothing  at  his  hitch-rope. 
The  man  smiled  his  acceptance  of  the  challenge, 
stepped  in  front  of  the  horse,  and  looked  at  him 
steadily.  What  he  thought  or  willed,  what  feeling 
or  impulse  he  sent  out,  I  know  not ;  but  certainly 
some  silent  communication  passed,  which  the 
horse  recognized  by  forward-pointing  ears  and 
a  low  whinny  of  pleasure.  Then  the  man  un- 
snapped  the  rope  from  the  bridle  ring,  turned 
away  without  a  word,  and  the  horse  followed 

[1451 


How  Animals  Talk 


him  across  the  square  and  back  again  to  the 
hitching-post. 

When  I  asked  how  the  thing  was  done,  the  man 
answered  with  entire  frankness  that  he  did  not 
know.  It  "just  came  natural"  to  him,  he  said, 
to  understand  horses,  and  he  had  always  been  able 
to  make  them  do  almost  anything  he  wanted. 
But  he  had  no  remarkable  power  over  other  ani- 
mals, so  far  as  I  could  learn,  and  was  uncommonly 
shy  of  dogs,  even  of  little  dogs,  regarding  them  all 
alike  as  worthless  or  dangerous  brutes. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  recall,  in  this  connec- 
tion, the  shabby-genteel  old  man  who  used  to 
amuse  visitors  in  the  public  gardens  of  Paris  by 
playing  with  the  sparrows,  some  twenty-odd  years 
ago.  So  long  as  he  went  his  way  quietly  the  birds 
paid  no  more  attention  to  him  than  to  any  other 
stroller;  but  the  moment  he  began  to  chirp  some 
wild  and  joyous  excitement  spread  through  the 
trees.  From  all  sides  the  sparrows  rushed  to  him, 
alighting  on  his  hat  or  shoulders,  clamoring  loudly 
for  the  food  which  they  seemed  to  know  was  in  his 
pockets,  but  which  he  would  not  at  first  give  them. 
When  he  had  a  crowd  of  men  and  women  watching 
him  (for  he  was  vain  of  his  gift,  and  made  a  small 
living  by  passing  his  hat  after  an  entertainment) 
he  would  single  out  a  cock-sparrow  from  the  flock 
and  cry,  "What!  you  here  again,  Bismarck,  you 

[146] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


scoundrel?"  Then  he  would  abuse  the  cock- 
sparrow,  calling  him  a  barbarian,  a  Prussian,  a 
mannerless  intruder  who  had  no  business  among 
honorable  French  sparrows;  and  finally,  pretending 
to  grow  violently  angry,  he  would  chase  Bismarck 
from  bench  to  bench  and  throw  his  hat  at  him. 
And  Bismarck  would  respond  by  dodging  the  hat, 
chirping  blithely  the  while,  as  if  it  were  a  good  joke, 
and  would  fly  back  to  peck  at  the  crust  of  bread 
which  the  old  man  held  between  his  lips  or  left 
sticking  out  of  his  pocket. 

One  might  have  understood  this  as  a  mere  train- 
ing trick  if  Bismarck  were  always  the  same;  but 
he  was  any  cock-sparrow  that  the  man  chanced 
to  pick  out  of  a  flock.  After  playing  with  the 
birds  till  they  wearied  of  it,  he  would  feed  them, 
pass  the  hat,  and  stroll  away  to  repeat  his  per- 
formance with  another  flock  in  another  part  of 
the  gardens.  That  these  wary  and  suspicious 
birds,  far  more  distrustful  of  man  than  the  spar- 
rows of  the  wilderness,  understood  his  mental  at- 
titude rather  than  his  word  or  action;  that  he 
could  make  them  feel  his  kindliness,  his  camarad- 
erie^ his  call  to  come  and  play,  even  while  he  pre- 
tended to  chase  them, — this  was  the  impression  of 
at  least  one  visitor  who  watched  him  again  and 
again  at  his  original  entertainment. 

Some  kind  of  communication  must  have  passed 
[i47l 


How  Animals  Talk 


silently  between  the  actor  and  one  of  his  audience ; 
for  presently,  though  I  never  spoke  to  the  old  man, 
but  only  watched  him  keenly,  he  picked  me  out 
for  personal  attention.  Whereupon  I  cultivated 
his  acquaintance,  invited  him  to  dine  and  fed  him 
like  a  duke,  and  thought  I  had  gained  his  confi- 
dence by  taking  him  to  see  a  big  wolf  of  mine  that 
might  well  have  puzzled  any  student  of  birds  or 
beasts.  The  wolf  was  one  of  a  wild  pack  that  had 
recently  arrived  at  the  zoo  from  Siberia,  where 
they  had  been  caught  in  a  pit  and  shipped  away 
with  all  their  savagery  in  them.  Through  some 
freak  of  nature  this  one  wolf  had  attached  himself 
to  me,  like  a  lost  dog ;  by  some  marv,elously  subtle 
perception  he  would  recognize  my  coming  at  a 
distance,  even  in  a  holiday  crowd,  and  would 
thrust  his  grim  muzzle  against  the  bars  of  his  cage 
to  howl  or  roar  till  I  came  and  stretched  out  a  hand 
to  him,  though  he  was  as  wild  and  "slinky"  as  the 
rest  of  the  pack  to  everybody  else,  even  to  the 
keeper  who  fed  him.  That  interested  the  sparrow- 
tamer,  of  course;  but  he  was  silent  or  tocKgarrulous 
whenever  I  approached  the  thing  I  wanted  to 
know.  He  would  not  tell  me  how  he  won  the 
birds,  but  made  a  mystery  and  hocus-pocus  of 
the  natural  gift  by  which  he  earned  a  precarious 
living. 

The  same  "mystery"  cropped  out  later,  amid 
[148] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


very  different  scenes,  in  the  interior  of  Newfound- 
land. Coming  down  beside  a  salmon  river  one 
day,  my  Indian,  a  remarkable  man  with  an  almost 
uncanny  power  of  calling  wild  creatures  of  every 
kind,  pointed  to  a  hole  high  on  the  side  of  a  stub, 
and  said,  "Go,  knock-urn  dere;  see  if  woodpecker 
at  home/'  I  went  and  knocked  softly,  but  noth- 
ing happened.  "Knock-um  again,  knock-um  lit- 
tle louder,"  said  Matty.  I  knocked  again,  more 
lustily,  and  again  nothing  happened.  Then  the 
Indian  came  and  rapped  the  tree  with  his  knuckles, 
while  I  stood  aside;  and  instantly  a  woodpecker 
that  was  brooding  her  eggs  stuck  her  head  out  of 
the  hole  and  looked  down  at  her  visitor  inquisi- 
tively. 

The  next  day  at  the  same  place  we  repeated 
the  same  performance  precisely,  after  our  morning 
fishing;  and  again  the  interesting  thing  to  me 
was,  not  the  bird's  instant  appearance  at  the 
Indian's  summons,  but  the  curiously  intent  way  in 
which  she  turned  her  head  to  look  down  at  him. 
When  he  showed  his  craft  again  and  again,  at  the 
doors  of  other  woodpeckers  that  were  not  inter- 
ested in  my  knocking,  I  demanded,  "Now,  Matty, 
tell  me  how  you  do  it." 

But  Matty  only  laughed.    When  we  are  alone 
in  the  woods  he  has  a  fine  sense  of  humor,  though 
grim  enough  at  other  times.     "Oh,  woodpecker 
11  [  149  ] 


How  Animals  Talk 


know  me;    he  look  down  at  me,"  he  said;    and 
that  was  all  I  could  ever  get  out  of  him. 

So,  though  I  have  seen  the  gift  in  operation 
several  times,  I  have  not  yet  found  the  man  who 
had  it  and  who  could  or  would  give  me  any 
explanation.  There  is  no  doubt  in  my  own  mind, 
however,  that  the  negro,  the  Frenchman,  and  the 
Indian,  and  all  others  who  exercise  any  unusual 
influence  over  animals,  do  so  by  reason  of  their 
subconscious  power  to  "talk"  or  to  convey  im- 
pulses without  words,  as  gregarious  wild  creatures 
commonly  talk  among  themselves.  At  least,  I  can 
understand  much  of  what  I  see  among  birds  and 
brutes  by  assuming  that  they  talk  in  this  fashion. 

Such  a  power  seems  mysterious,  incredible,  in  a 
civilized  world  of  sense  and  noise;  but  I  fancy 
that  every  man  and  woman  speaks  silently  to  the 
brute  without  being  conscious  of  the  fact.  "If 
you  want  to  see  game,  leave  your  gun  at  home," 
is  an  accepted  saying  among  hunters;  but  the 
reason  for  the  excellent  admonition  has  not  been 
forthcoming.  When  you  have  hunted  six  days 
in  vain,  and  then  on  a  quiet  Sunday  stroll  come 
plump  upon  noble  game  that  seems  to  have  no 
fear,  you  are  apt  to  think  of  the  curiosities  of  luck, 
but  even  here  also  are  you  under  the  sway  of 
psychological  law  and  order.  As  you  go  quietly 

[150] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


through  the  woods,  projecting  your  own  "aura" 
of  peace  or  sympathy,  it  may  be,  in  an  invisible 
wave  ahead  of  you,  there  is  nothing  disturbing  or 
inharmonious  in  either  your  thoughts  or  your 
actions ;  and  at  times  the  wild  animal  seems  curi- 
ously able  to  understand  the  one  as  well  as  the 
other,  just  as  certain  dogs  know  at  first  glance 
whether  a  stranger  is  friendly  or  hostile  or  afraid 
of  them.  When  you  are  excited  or  lustful  to  kill, 
something  of  your  emotional  excitement  seems  to 
precede  you;  it  passes  over  many  wild  birds  and 
beasts,  all  delicately  sensitive,  before  you  come 
within  their  sense  range ;  and  when  you  draw  near 
enough  to  see  them  you  often  find  them  restless, 
suspicious,  though  as  yet  no  tangible  warning  of 
danger  has  floated  through  the  still  woods.  At  the 
first  glimpse  or  smell  of  you  they  bound  away, 
your  action  in  hiding  or  creeping  making  evident 
the  danger  which  thus  far  was  only  vaguely  felt. 
But  if  you  approach  the  same  animals  gently, 
without  mental  excitement  of  any  kind,  some- 
times, indeed,  they  promptly  run  away,  especially 
in  a  much-hunted  region;  but  more  frequently 
they  meet  you  with  a  look  of  surprise ;  they  move 
alertly  here  or  there  to  get  a  better  view  of  you,  and 
show  many  fascinating  signs  of  curiosity  before  they 
glide  away,  looking  back  as  they  go. 

Such  has  been  the  illuminating  experience  of 
[151] 


How  Animals  Talk 


one  man,  at  least,  repeated  a  hundred  times  in  the 
wilderness.  I  have  been  deep  in  the  woods  when 
my  food-supply  ran  low,  or  was  lost  in  the  rapids, 
or  went  to  feed  an  uninvited^  bear,  and  it  was  then 
a  question  of  shoot  game  or  go  hungry;  but  the 
shooting  was  limited  by  the  principle  that  a  wild 
animal  has  certain  rights  which  a  man  is  bound 
to  respect.  I  have  always  held,  for  example,  that  a 
hunter  has  no  excuse  for  trying  long  shots  that  are 
beyond  his  ordinary  skill;  that  it  is  unpardonable 
of  him  to  "take  a  chance"  with  noble  game  or  to 
"pump  lead"  after  it,  knowing  as  he  does  that  the 
chances  are  fifty  to  one  that,  if  he  hits  at  all,  he 
will  merely  wound  the  animal  and  deprive  it  of  that 
gladness  of  freedom  which  is  more  to  it  than  life. 
So  when  I  have  occasionally  gone  out  to  kill  a 
buck  (a  proceeding  which  I  heartily  dislike)  I  have 
sometimes  hunted  for  days  before  getting  within 
close  range  of  the  animal  I  wanted.  But  when,  in 
the  same  region  and  following  the  same  trails,  I 
have  entered  the  big  woods  with  no  other  object 
than  to  enjoy  their  stillness,  their  fragrance,  their 
benediction,  it  is  seldom  that  I  do  not  find  plenty 
of  deer,  or  that  I  cannot  get  as  near  as  I  please  to 
any  one  of  them.  More  than  once  in  the  woods 
I  have  touched  a  wild  deer  with  my  hand  (as 
recorded  in  another  chapter)  and  many  times  I 
have  had  them  within  reach  of  my  fishing-rod. 

[152] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


It  is  even  so  with  bear,  moose,  caribou  and 
other  creatures — your  best  "shots"  come  when 
you  are  not  expecting  them,  and  it  is  not  chance, 
but  psychological  law,  which  determines  that  you 
shall  see  most  game  when  you  leave  your  gun  at 
home.  A  hunter  must  be  dull  indeed  not  to  have 
discovered  that  the  animal  he  approaches  peace- 
ably, trying  to  make  his  eyes  or  his  heart  say 
friendly  things,  is  a  very  different  animal  from  the 
one  he  stalks  with  muscles  tense  and  eyes  hard 
and  death  in  the  curl  of  his  trigger  finger. 

I  once  met  an  English  hunter,  a  forest  officer  in 
India,  who  told  me  that  for  the  first  year  of  his 
stay  in  the  jungle  he  was  "crazy"  to  kill  a  tiger. 
He  dreamed  of  the  creatures  by  night ;  he  hunted 
them  at  every  opportunity  and  in  every  known 
fashion  by  day;  he  never  went  abroad  on  forest 
business  without  a  ready  rifle;  and  in  all  that 
time  he  had  just  one  glimpse  of  a  running  tiger. 
One  day  he  was  led  far  from  his  camp  by  a  new 
bird,  and  as  he  watched  it  in  a  little  opening,  un- 
armed and  happy  in  his  discovery,  a  tiger  lifted  its 
huge  head  from  the  grass,  not  twenty  steps  away. 
The  brute  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, then  moved  quietly  aside,  stopped  for  an- 
other look,  and  leaped  for  cover. 

That  put  a  new  idea  into  the  man's  head,  and 
the  idea  was  emphasized  by  the  fact  that  the  un- 

[i53] 


How  Animals  Talk 


armed  natives,  who  had  no  desire  to  meet  a  tiger, 
were  frequently  seeing  the  brutes  in  regions  where 
he  hunted  for  them  in  vain.  As  an  experiment 
he  left  his  rifle  at  home  for  a  few  months;  he 
practised  slipping  quietly  through  the  jungle  with- 
out physical  or  mental  excitement,  as  the  natives 
go,  and  presently  he,  too,  began  to  meet  tigers. 
In  one  district  he  came  close  to  four  in  as  many 
months,  and  every  one  acted  in  the  same  half- 
astonished,  half-inquisitive  way.  Then,  thinking 
he  understood  his  game,  he  began  to  carry  his 
rifle  again,  and  had  what  he  called  excellent  luck. 
The  beautiful  tiger  skins  he  showed  me  were  a 
proof  of  it. 

To  me  this  man  was  a  rare  curiosity,  being  the 
only  Indian  or  African  hunter  I  ever  met  who  went 
into  the  jungle  alone,  man  fashion,  and  who  did 
not  depend  on  unarmed  natives  or  beaters  or 
trackers  for  finding  his  game.  His  excellent  "  luck  " 
was,  as  I  judge,  simply  a  realization  of  the  fact 
that  human  excitement  may  carry  far  in  the  still 
woods,  and  be  quite  as  disturbing,  as  the  man-scent 
or  the  report  of  a  rifle. 

Does  all  this  sound  strange  or  incredible  to  you, 
like  a  chapter  from  a  dream-book?  However  it 
may  sound,  it  is  the  crystallized  conviction  result- 
ing from  years  of  intimate  observation  of  wild 
beasts  in  their  native  woods ;  and  if  you  consider 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


it  a  moment  without  prejudice,  it  may  appear  more 
natural  or  familiar,  like  a  chapter  from  life.  If 
the  man  who  sits  opposite  you  can  send  his  good 
or  evil  will  across  a  room,  so  that  you  feel  his 
quality  without  words,  or  if  he  can  so  express  him- 
self silently  when  he  enters  your  gate  that  certain 
dogs  instantly  take  his  measure  and  welcome  or 
bite  him,  it  is  not  at  all  improbable  that  the  same 
man  can  project  the  same  feelings  when  he  goes 
afield,  or  that  sensitive  wild  creatures  can  under- 
stand or  "feel  him  out"  at  a  considerable  distance. 
To  weigh  that  probability  fairly  you  must  first 
get  rid  of  your  ancient  hunting  lore.  Hunters  are 
like  the  Medes  and  Persians  in  that  they  have 
laws  which  alter  not;  and  I  suppose  if  you  met 
ancient  Nimrod  in  the  flesh,  his  admonition  would 
be,  "  Keep  to  leeward  and  stalk  carefully,  breaking 
no  twig,  for  your  game  will  run  away  if  it  winds  or 
hears  you."  That  is  the  first  rule  I  learned  for 
big-game  hunting,  and  it  is  founded  on  fact.  But 
there  are  two  other  facts  I  have  observed  these 
many  years,  which  Nimrod  will  never  mention: 
the  first,  that  when  you  are  keenly  hunting,  it 
often  happens  that  game  breaks  away  in  alarm 
before  it  winds  or  sees  or  hears  you ;  and  the  second, 
that  when  you  are  not  hunting,  but  peaceably  rov- 
ing the  woods,  going  carelessly  and  paying  no 
attention  to  the  wind,  you  often  come  very  close 

[i55] 


How  Animals  Talk 


to  wild  game,  which  stops  to  watch  you  curiously 
after  it  has  seen  you  and  heard  your  step  or  voice 
and  sampled  your  quality  in  the  air.  These  two 
facts,  implying  some  kind  of  mental  or  emotional 
contact  between  the  natural  man  and  the  natural 
brute,  are  probably  not  accidental  or  unrelated, 
and  we  are  here  trying  to  find  the  natural  law  or 
principle  of  which  they  are  the  occasional  and 
imperfect  expression. 

This  whole  matter  of  silent  communication  may 
appear  less  strange  if  we  remember  that  most  wild 
creatures  are  all  their  lives  accustomed  to  matters 
which  sense-blinded  mortals  find  mysterious  or  in- 
credible. Why  a  caterpillar,  which  lives  but  a  few 
hours  when  all  the  leaves  are  green,  should  make  a 
cocoon  of  a  single  leaf  and  with  a  thread  of  silk 
bind  that  leaf  to  its  stem  before  he  wraps  himself 
up  in  it,  as  if  he  knew  that  every  leaf  must  fall; 
or  why  a  spider,  adrift  for  the  first  time  on  a  chip, 
should  immediately  send  out  filaments  on  the  air 
currents  and,  when  one  of  his  filaments  cleaves  to 
something  solid  across  the  water,  pull  himself  and 
his  raft  ashore  by  it ;  or  why  a  young  bear,  which 
has  never  seen  a  winter,  should  at  the  proper  time 
prepare  a  den  for  his  long  winter  sleep, — a  thousand 
such  matters,  which  are  as  A  B  C  to  natural 
creatures,  are  to  us  as  incomprehensible  as  hiero- 
glyphics to  an  Eskimo.  That  a  sensitive  animal 

[156] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


should  know  by  feeling  (that  is,  by  the  reception 
of  a  silent  message)  whether  an  approaching 
animal  is  in  a  dangerous  or  a  harmless  mood  is 
really  no  more  remarkable  than  that  he  should 
know,  as  he  surely  does,  when  it  is  time  for  him  to 
migrate  or  to  make  ready  his  winter  quarters. 

This  amazing  sensitiveness,  resulting,  I  think, 
from  the  reception  of  a  wordless  message,  was 
brought  strongly  home  to  me  one  day  as  I  watched 
a  flock  of  black  mallards,  forty  or  fifty  of  them, 
resting  in  the  water-grass  within  a  few  yards  of  my 
hiding-place.  A  large  hawk  had  appeared  at  in- 
tervals, circling  over  the  marshes  and  occasionally 
over  the  pond ;  but,  beyond  turning  an  eye  upward 
when  he  came  too  near,  the  ducks  apparently  paid 
no  attention  to  him.  He  was  their  natural  enemy; 
they  had  paid  toll  of  their  number  to  satisfy  his 
hunger;  but  now,  though  plainly  seen,  he  was  no 
more  regarded  or  feared  than  a  dragon-fly  buzzing 
among  the  reeds.  Presently  another  hawk  ap- 
peared in  the  distance,  circling  above  the  meadows. 
As  a  wider  swing  brought  him  over  the  pond  a 
watchful  duck  uttered  a  single  low  quock!  On 
the  instant  heads  came  from  under  wings;  a  few 
ducks  shot  into  the  open  water  for  a  look;  others 
sprang  aloft  without  looking,  and  the  whole  flock 
was  away  in  a  twinkling.  I  think  the  hawk  did 
not  see  or  suspect  them  till  they  rose  in  the  air, 

[iS7l 


How  Animals  Talk 


for  at  the  sudden  commotion  he  swooped,  checked 
himself  when  he  saw  that  he  was  too  late,  and 
climbed  upward  where  he  could  view  the  whole 
marsh  again. 

Now  these  two  hawks  were  of  the  same  species, 
and  to  my  eyes  they  were  acting  very  much  alike. 
One  was  hungry,  on  the  lookout  for  food ;  the  other 
was  circling  for  his  own  amusement  after  having 
fed;  and  though  the  eyes  of  birds  are  untrust- 
worthy in  matters  of  such  fine  distinction,  in  some 
way  these  ducks  instantly  knew  or  felt  the  dif- 
ference between  the  mood  of  one  enemy  and  that 
of  another.  Likewise,  when  I  have  been  watching 
deer  in  winter,  I  have  seen  a  doe  throw  up  her  head, 
cry  an  alarm  and  bound  away;  and  her  action 
became  comprehensible  a  few  moments  later  when 
a  pack  of  hunting  wolves  broke  out  of  the  cover. 
But  I  have  watched  deer  when  a  pack  of  wolves 
that  were  not  hunting  passed  by  in  plain  sight,  and 
beyond  an  occasional  lift  of  the  head  for  an  alert 
glance  the  timid  creatures  showed  no  sign  of  alarm, 
or  even  of  uneasiness,  in  presence  of  their  terrible 
enemies. 

I  say  confidently  that  one  wolf  pack  was  hunting 
and  the  other  not  hunting  because  the  northern 
timber-wolf  naturally  (that  is,  in  a  wild  state  and 
dealing  with  wild  animals)  hunts  or  kills  only  when 
he  is  hungry.  I  ran  the  trails  of  both  packs,  and 

[158] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


one  showed  plainly  that  the  wolves  were  in  search 
of  food ;  while  the  other  said  that  the  brutes  were 
roaming  the  country  idly,  lazily;  and  when  I  ran 
the  back  trail  of  this  second  pack  I  found  where 
they  had  just  killed  and  eaten.  The  deer  were  not 
afraid  of  them  because  they  were  for  the  time  quite 
harmless. 

At  first  I  thought  that  these  ducks  and  deer  per- 
ceived the  mood  of  their  enemies  in  a  simple  way 
through  the  senses ;  that  they  could  infer  from  the 
flight  of  a  hawk  or  the  trot  of  a  wolf  whether  he 
were  peaceable  or  dangerous ;  and  at  times  this  is 
probably  the  true  explanation  of  the  matter.  The 
eyes  of  most  birds  and  beasts,  strangely  dull  to 
objects  at  rest,  are  instantly  attracted  to  any 
unusual  motion.  If  the  motion  be  quiet,  steady, 
rhythmical,  they  soon  lose  interest  in  it,  unless  it 
be  accompanied  by  a  display  of  bright  color;  but  if 
the  motion  be  erratic,  or  if  it  appear  and  disappear, 
as  when  an  approaching  animal  hides  or  creeps, 
they  keep  sharp  watch  until  they  know  what  the 
motion  means  or  until  timidity  prompts  them  to 
run  away.  Thus,  chickens  or  ducks  show  alarm 
when  a  kite  slants  up  into  the  air;  they  lose  in- 
terest when  the  kite  sits  in  the  wind,  and  become 
alert  again  when  it  begins  to  dive  or  swoop.  It 
is  noticeable,  also,  that  on  a  windy  day  all  game- 
birds  and  animals  are  uncommonly  wild  and  dif- 

[i59] 


How  Animals  Talk 


ficult  of  approach,  partly  because  the  constant 
motion  of  leaves  or  grass  upsets  them,  and  partly 
(in  the  case  of  animals)  because  their  noses  are  at 
fault,  the  air  messages  being  constantly  broken 
up  and  confused.  But  such  a  "sensible"  explana- 
tion, suitable  as  it  may  be  for  times  or  places,  no 
longer  satisfies  me,  and  simply  because  it  does  not 
explain  why  on  a  quiet  day  game  should  be  uncon- 
cerned in  presence  of  one  hawk  or  wolf,  and  take 
to  instant  flight  on  the  appearance  of  another 
enemy  of  the  same  species. 

It  should  be  noted  here  that  these  "fierce" 
birds  and  beasts  are  no  more  savage  in  killing 
grouse  or  deer  than  the  grouse  is  savage  in  eating 
bugs,  or  the  deer  in  seeking  mushrooms  at  the 
proper  season;  that  they  simply  seek  their  natural 
meat  when  they  are  hungry,  and  that  they  are  not 
bloodthirsty  or  ferocious  or  wanton  killers.  Only 
men,  and  dogs  trained  or  spoiled  by  men,  are  open 
to  that  charge.  The  birds  and  beasts  of  prey  when 
not  hungry  (which  is  a  large  part  of  the  time,  since 
they  feed  but  once  a  day  or  sometimes  at  longer 
intervals)  live  as  peaceably  as  one  could  wish. 
After  feeding  they  instinctively  seek  to  be  with 
their  own  kind  and  very  rarely  attempt  to  molest 
other  creatures.  At  such  times,  when  they  are 
resting  or  playing  or  roving  the  woods,  the  smaller 
wood  folk  pay  no  more  attention  to  them  than  to 

[160] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


harmless  fish-hawks  or  porcupines.1  Repeatedly 
I  have  watched  game-birds  or  animals  when  their 
enemies  were  in  sight,  and  have  wondered  at 
their  fearlessness.  The  interesting  question  is, 
How  do  they  know,  as  they  seemingly  do,  when 
the  full-fed  satisfaction  of  their  enemy  changes 
to  a  dangerous  mood  ?  Why,  for  example,  are  deer 
alarmed  at  the  yelp  of  a  she-wolf  calling  her  cubs 
to  the  trail,  and  why  do  they  feed  confidently  in  the 
dusk-filled  woods,  as  I  have  seen  them  do,  when  the 
air  shivers  and  creeps  to  the  clamor  of  a  wolf  pack 
baying  like  unleashed  hounds  in  wild  jubilation? 

I  have  no  answer  to  the  question,  and  no  ex- 
planation except  the  one  suggested  by  human  ex- 
perience :  that  the  hunting  animal,  like  the  hunt- 
ing man,  probably  sends  something  of  his  emotional 
excitement  in  a  wave  ahead  of  him,  and  that  some 
animals  are  finely  sensitive  enough  to  receive  this 
message  and  to  be  vaguely  alarmed  by  it. 

The  mating  of  animals,  especially  the  calling  of 
an  unseen  mate  from  a  great  distance,  brings  us 

*In  parts  of  the  West,  I  am  told,  wolves  often  kill  more  than  they  need. 
Formerly  they  fed  on  the  abundant  game  and  were  wholly  natural  animals; 
but  their  habits  have  changed  with  a  changed  environment.  When  the 
game  was  destroyed  by  settlers  or  hunters  the  wolves  began  to  feed  on 
domestic  animals;  and  the  descendants  of  these  wolves,  which  killed 
right  and  left  in  a  crowding,  excited  herd  of  sheep  or  cattle,  are  now  said 
to  kill  deer  wantonly  when  they  have  the  chance.  I  cannot  personally 
verify  the  saying,  and  know  not  whether  it  rests  on  exceptional  or  typical 
observation.  In  the  North,  where  there  are  no  domestic  animals,  I  have 
rarely  known  a  timber-wolf  to  kill  after  his  hunger  was  satisfied. 

[161] 


How  Animals  Talk 


face  to  face  with  the  same  problem,  and  perhaps 
also  the  same  answer.  Sometimes  the  mating  call 
is  addressed  to  the  outer  ear,  as  in  the  drumming 
of  a  cock-grouse  or  the  whine  of  a  cow-moose; 
but  frequently  a  mate  appears  when,  so  far  as  we 
can  hear,  there  is  no  audible  cry  to  call  him. 
How  do  the  butterflies,  for  example,  know  when 
or  where  to  seek  their  other  halves?  That  their 
meeting  is  by  chance  or  blunder  or  accident  is  a 
theory  which  hardly  endures  an  hour's  observa- 
tion. In  the  early  spring  I  take  a  cocoon  from  a 
certain  corner  of  shrubbery  and  carry  it  to  my 
house,  and  there  keep  it  till  the  end  softens,  when 
I  put  it  into  a  box  with  a  screened  top  and  hang  it 
out  under  the  trees.  Presently  a  gorgeous  moth 
crawls  out  of  the  cocoon ;  and  hardly  has  she  begun 
to  wave  her  wings  to  dry  them  when  the  air  over 
the  screen  is  brilliant  with  dancing  wings,  the 
wings  of  her  would-be  mates.  And  the  thing  is 
more  puzzling  to  me  because  I  have  never  found  a 
cocoon  of  that  kind  in  my  immediate  neighbor- 
hood ;  nor  have  I  seen  a  single  cecropia  this  season 
until  the  captive  called  them. 

How  they  find  her  so  promptly  is  a  problem  that 
I  cannot  solve.  It  may  be  that  the  call  is  wholly 
physical  or  sensible,  that  some  fine  dust  or  aroma 
is  sent  forth  on  the  air  currents,  and  the  sensitive 
nerves  of  other  moths  receive  and  respond  to  it; 

[162] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


but  it  is  still  amazing  that  wind-blown  creatures 
can  follow  an  invisible  air-trail  through  what  must 
be  to  them  a  constant  tempest  and  whirlwind  of 
air  currents,  until  they  come  unerringly  to  the  one 
desired  spot  in  a  limitless  universe.  I  have  shown 
that  pretty  sight  of  dancing  wings  to  many  au- 
diences, after  predicting  what  would  happen; 
and  always  they  saw  it  with  wonder,  as  if  there 
were  magic  in  it. 

The  moth  mystery  may  be  dissolved  by  some 
such  purely  physical  formula;  but  what  physical 
sense  will  explain  the  fact  that  when  I  turned 
a  modest  hen-pheasant  loose  in  the  spring,  in  a 
region  where  my  wide-ranging  setter  and  I  never 
discovered  a  pheasant,  she  was  immediately  joined 
by  a  gloriously  colored  mate,  and  soon  there  was  a 
hidden  nest  and  then  young  pheasants  to  watch? 
Most  birds  and  beasts  are  questing  widely  in  the 
mating  season,  and  their  senses  seem  to  be  more 
keen  at  this  time,  or  more  concentrated  on  a  single 
object.  On  grounds  of  what  we  thoughtlessly 
call  chance,  therefore,  they  would  be  more  apt  to 
find  mates  when  they  are  keenly  looking  for  them; 
but  giving  them  every  possible  chance  in  a  wide 
region  where  the  species  is  almost  extinct,  and  then 
multiplying  that  chance  a  hundred  times,  I  still 
find  it  hard  to  believe  that  the  meeting  of  two  rare 
animals  is  either  accidental  or  the  result  of  or- 

[163] 


How  Animals  Talk 


dinary  sense-perception.  Out  of  several  examples 
that  occur  to  me,  here  are  two  which  especially 
challenge  the  attention: 

One  early  spring  a  she-fox  was  caught  in  her  den, 
some  five  miles  from  the  village  where  I  then 
harbored.  She  was  carefully  bagged,  carried  a  few 
rods  to  an  old  wood  road,  placed  in  a  wagon  and 
driven  over  country  highways  to  the  village,  where 
she  was  confined  in  a  roomy  pen  in  a  man's  door- 
yard.  A  few  nights  later  came  a  snowfall,  and 
in  the  morning  there  were  the  tracks  of  a  male 
fox  heading  straight  to  the  vixen  and  making  a 
path  round  about  her  pen.  She  was  his  mate, 
presumably,  and  when  we  found  his  tracks  our 
first  feeling  of  admiration  at  his  boldness  was  soon 
replaced  by  the  puzzling  question  of  how  he  had 
found  her  so  quickly  and  so  surely.  To  answer 
that  question,  if  possible,  I  followed  his  back 
trail. 

Now  the  trail  of  a  fox  in  the  wilderness,  where 
he  is  sometimes  hunted  by  wolves  or  other  hungry 
prowlers,  is  a  bewildering  succession  of  twistings 
and  crisscrosses;  in  a  settled  region,  where  his 
natural  enemies  are  extinct,  his  trail  is  bolder, 
more  straightforward,  easier  to  read;  and  in 
either  case  you  can  quickly  tell  by  the  "signs" 
whether  your  fox  is  male  or  female,  whether  hunt- 
ing or  roaming,  or  hungry  or  satisfied.  Also  you 

[164] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


can  tell  whether  he  is  just  "projeckin'  around/'  as 
Uncle  Remus  says,  or  whether  his  mind  is  set  on 
going  somewhere.  In  the  latter  event  he  almost 
invariably  follows  runways,  or  fox  roads,  which 
are  as  well  known  to  him  as  are  footpaths  and 
stream-crossings  to  a  country  lad.  But  the  trail 
of  this  particular  fox  was  different  from  any  other 
that  I  ever  followed.  That  he  was  a  male  and 
was  "going  somewhere"  was  evident  enough;  but 
he  was  not  following  runways  or  paying  any  at- 
tention to  them.  He  left  no  signs  at  places  where 
any  ordinary  dog-fox  would  surely  have  left  them, 
and  he  was  stopping  to  listen  or  to  ward  himself 
at  uncommonly  frequent  intervals.  So,  running 
it  backward,  I  read  the  story  of  his  journey  mile 
after  mile,  till  the  oncoming  trail  changed  to  the 
devious,  rambling  trot  of  a  questing  fox;  and  be- 
yond that  I  had  no  interest  in  it. 

The  place  where  the  fox  seemed  to  have  found 
his  bearings,  or  where  he  stopped  his  rambling  to 
head  straight  for  his  mate,  was  some  four  miles 
distant  from  the  captive  in  a  bee-line.  The  course 
he  took  was  entirely  different  from  that  taken  by 
the  man  who  brought  the  vixen  home,  thus  exclud- 
ing the  theory  that  he  followed  the  trail  by  scent; 
and  the  latter  part  of  his  way  led  through  the  out- 
skirts of  a  village,  where  the  track  of  a  fox  had 
not  been  seen  for  many  years.  From  the  distant 
12  I  l6S  ] 


How  Animals  Talk 


hills  he  had  come  down  through  sheltering  woods 
at  a  stealthy  trot;  across  open  pastures  on  the 
jump;  over  a  bridge  and  along  a  highway,  where 
he  traveled  behind  a  friendly  stone  wall;  then 
very  cautiously  through  lanes  and  garden  fringes, 
where  the  scent  of  men  and  dogs  met  him  at  every 
turn;  turning  aside  here  for  a  difficulty  or  there  for 
a  danger,  but  holding  his  direction  as  true  as  if 
he  followed  a  compass,  till  he  came  at  last  with 
delicate  steps  to  where  his  mate  was  silently  call- 
ing him.  For  except  on  the  assumption  that  she 
called  him,  and  with  a  cry  that  was  soundless,  I 
know  not  how  to  explain  the  fact  that  he  found 
her  in  a  place  where  neither  he  nor  she  had  ever 
been  before. 

It  is  possible,  you  may  reason,  that  this  was  not 
his  first  visit;  that  unknown  to  us,  venturing 
among  his  human  and  canine  enemies,  he  had  by 
a  lucky  chance  stumbled  upon  his  mate  on  an 
evening  when  the  bare  ground  did  not  betray  his 
secret  to  our  eyes;  and  that  for  his  next  visit  he 
had  cunningly  laid  out  a  different  trail  through 
manifold  dangers.  It  was  the  latter  trail,  made 
without  doubt  or  question  of  what  lay  at  the  end 
of  it,  which  I  had  followed  in  the  telltale  snow. 

That  is  a  good  armchair  argument,  but  a  very 
doubtful  explanation  of  the  fox  action,  since  it  calls 
for  more  reasoning  power  than  we  commonly  find 

[166] 


rhe  course  he  took  was  entirely  different  from  that  taken  by  the  man 
who  brought  the  vixen  home. 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


in  a  brute.  Remember  that  this  male  fox  was 
far  away  on  his  own  affairs  when  his  mate  was 
captured,  and  he  had  no  means  of  knowing  where 
she  had  gone:  he  simply  missed  her  from  her  ac- 
customed haunts,  and  sought  till  he  found  her.  Re- 
member also  that  a  male  fox  is  never  allowed  to 
come  near  his  mate's  den ;  that  when  she  is  heavy 
with  young,  as  this  vixen  was  when  caught,  he 
may  join  her  of  an  evening  and  hunt  for  her,  or 
bring  her  food  that  he  has  killed,  but  always,  I 
think,  at  a  distance  from  the  place  where  she 
intends  to  bring  forth  her  cubs.  That  the  male, 
after  missing  his  mate  and  yapping  for  her  in  vain 
through  the  woods,  should  at  last  seek  her  at  the 
forbidden  den,  and  there  find  the  scent  of  men 
and  conclude  that  they  had  taken  her  away;  that 
he  should  follow  the  scent  of  a  wagon-wheel  over 
five  miles  of  country  roads,  or  else  explore  all  the 
neighboring  villages  till  he  found  what  he  sought; 
that  he  should  then  lay  out  a  different  trail,  more 
secret  and  more  reasonably  safe,  for  his  second 
visit, — all  this  is  to  me  more  ingenious,  more  un- 
natural and  more  incredible  than  that  his  mate 
should  silently  call  him,  as  his  mother  had  prob- 
ably many  times  called  him  from  the  den  when  he 
was  a  cub,  and  that  he  should  feel  and  answer  her 
summons. 

Such  reasoning  is  purely  speculative,  but  there 
[167] 


How  Animals  Talk 


are  certain  facts  which  we  must  keep  in  mind  if  we 
are  to  explain  the  matter.  The  first,  a  general  fact 
which  is  open  to  observation,  is  that  it  is  fox  nature 
at  certain  seasons  to  come  to  a  captive;  for  what 
reason  or  with  what  self-forgetful  motive  it  would 
be  hard  to  say.  I  have  known  mother  foxes  and 
mother  wolves  to  come  where  their  cubs  were 
imprisoned  by  men.  I  have  heard  a  straight  rec- 
ord of  one  male  wolf  that  appeared  at  a  ranch  the 
second  night  after  his  wounded  mate  was  captured 
by  the  ranchman.  And  I  have  seen  a  male  fox 
come  to  the  rescue  of  a  female  when  she  was 
driven  by  dogs  and  too  heavy  with  young  to  make 
a  long  run,  and  wait  beside  her  trail  till  the  dogs 
appeared,  and  then  lead  them  off  after  him  while 
she  made  her  escape.  The  second  fact,  which 
may  imply  some  power  of  silent  communication,  is 
that  when  snow  fell  about  the  pen  of  this  captive 
fox,  a  few  nights  after  she  was  taken,  there  were 
the  tracks  to  show  that  her  mate  already  knew 
where  she  was.  That  he  found  and  came  to  her 
in  the  midst  of  his  enemies  may  be  quite  as  sig- 
nificant as  how  he  found  her,  by  way  of  giving  a 
new  direction  or  interest  to  our  skin-and-bones 
study  of  natural  history. 

In  this  first  example  the  fox  was  perhaps  moved 
by  the  mating  impulse,  which  sharpened  his  wit 
and  encouraged  his  will ;  but  at  times  a  wild  creat- 

[168] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


lire  may  seek  and  find  his  mate  when  no  such 
"call  of  the  blood"  urges  him,  when  he  comes 
with  his  life  in  his  hand  in  response  to  some  finer 
or  nobler  motive,  something  perhaps  akin  to  loy- 
alty, which  is  the  sum  of  all  virtues.  Witness  the 
following: 

A  friend  of  mine  was  hunting  one  October  day 
when  his  shot  wing-tipped  a  quail,  apparently  the 
old  female  of  the  flock,  which  his  dog  caught  and 
brought  to  him  almost  uninjured.  What  to  do 
was  the  next  question.  It  is  easy,  because 
thoughtless,  to  cut  down  a  bird  in  swift  flight ;  but 
when  the  little  thing  nestles  down  in  your  hand 
or  tries  to  hide  under  your  fingers ;  when  you  can 
feel  its  rapid  heart-beat,  and  its  eyes  are  big  and 
wondrous  bright, — well,  then  some  hunters  bite  the 
head,  and  some  wring  the  neck,  and  some  would 
for  the  moment  as  lief  be  shot  as  to  do  either. 
So  to  avoid  the  difficulty  my  friend  put  the  quail 
carefully  away  in  a  pocket  of  his  hunting-coat, 
and  brought  her  home  with  some  vague  idea  of 
taming  her,  and  some  dream  of  trapping  a  mate 
in  the  spring  and  perhaps  raising  some  little  bob- 
whites  of  his  own.  At  night  he  put  the  captive 
into  a  coop  just  inside  the  barn  window,  which 
was  open  wide  enough  to  admit  air  but  not  a 
prowling  cat;  for  he  was  already  beginning  to 
learn  that  a  quail  is  a  most  lovable  little  pet,  and 

[169] 


How  Animals  Talk 


he  was  bound  that  she  should  not  again  be  hurt 
or  frightened. 

Before  sunrise  next  morning  he  heard  low, 
eager  whistlings  in  the  yard;  and  there  was 
another  quail,  a  male  bob  -  white,  where  never 
one  was  seen  before  nor  since.  He  was  perched 
warily  on  the  window-sill  of  the  barn,  looking 
in  at  his  captive  mate,  telling  her  in  the  softest 
of  quail  tones  (for  there  were  enemies  all  about) 
that  he  had  found  her  and  was  glad;  while  from 
within  the  barn  came  a  soft  piping  and  gurgling 
which  seemed  to  speak  welcome  and  reassurance. 
The  opening  of  a  door  frightened  him ;  he  buzzed 
away  to  the  orchard,  and  presently  from  an  apple- 
tree  came  the  exquisite  quoi-lee!  quoi-lee!  the  as- 
sembly-call of  the  bob-white  family. 

The  first  quail  had  been  caught  miles  away  from 
the  man's  house;  there  were  no  other  birds  of  her 
own  kind  within  hearing  distance,  so  far  as  my 
friend  and  his  dog  ever  discovered,  and  it  was 
not  the  mating -time,  when  quail  are  questing 
widely.  By  a  process  of  elimination,  therefore, 
one  reaches  the  conclusion  that  the  male  bird  was, 
in  all  probability,  the  father  of  the  flock  over 
which  the  captive  presided;  that  he  had  helped 
to  raise  the  young  birds,  as  quail  commonly  do; 
that  he  had  stood  by  his  family  all  summer  in  loyal 
bob-white  fashion,  and  that  he  went  out  to  seek 

[170] 


Where  Silence  Is  Eloquent 


his  vanished  mate  when  she  failed  to  answer  his 
calling. 

All  that  seems  clear  enough,  and  in  perfect  ac- 
cord with  quail  habits;  but  when  you  ask,  "How 
did  he  find  her?"  there  is  no  answer  except  the 
meaningless  word  "chance"  or  a  frank  admission 
of  our  original  premise :  that  wild  birds  and  beasts 
all  exercise  a  measure  of  that  mysterious  telepathic 
power  which  reappears  now  and  then  in  some  sen- 
sitive man  or  woman.  It  may  be  for  the  wood  folk 
that  "There  is  no  speech  nor  language:  their  voice 
is  not  heard,"  as  the  Psalmist  wrote  of  the  com- 
muning day  and  night;  but  they  certainly  com- 
municate in  some  way,  and  the  longer  one  studies 
them  the  more  does  it  appear  that  part  of  their 
"talk"  is  of  a  finer  character  than  that  which  our 
ears  can  hear. 


VII 


TO  know  birds  and  beasts  may  be  a  greater 
or  a  lesser  triumph  than  to  know  ornithology 
or  zoology.  That  is  a  question  of  taste  or  tem- 
perament, the  only  certainty  being  that  the  two 
classes  of  subjects  are  altogether  different.  The 
latter  deals  with  external  matters,  with  form,  clas- 
sification, generalities.  Its  materials  are  books, 
specimens,  museums,  one  as  dead  or  desiccate  as 
another;  and  because  it  is  limited  and  exact,  you 
can  memorize  its  outlines  in  a  few  days,  or  become 
in  a  few  years  an  authority  in  the  science. 

The  former  subject,  of  birds  and  beasts,  deals 
with  an  endless  and  fascinating  mystery.  Its  ma- 
terials are  living  and  joyous  individuals,  among 

[i75l 


How  Animals  Talk 


whom  are  no  classes  or  species,  concerning  whom 
there  can  be  no  "authority";  and  when,  after  a 
lifetime  of  study,  you  have  made  a  small  beginning 
of  knowledge,  you  find  that,  like  All  Gaul  of  misty 
memory,  it  may  be  divided  into  three  parts. 

One  part  is  observation,  which  is  a  simple  mat- 
ter of  the  eye.  Another  is  sympathy,  which  be- 
longs to  the  mind  or  heart.  In  dealing  with  wild 
creatures,  as  with  civilized  folk,  one  learns  to  ap- 
preciate De  Quincey's  rule  of  criticism,  "Not  to 
sympathize  is  not  to  understand/'  A  third  part, 
more  rare  and  variable,  may  come  from  that  pen- 
etrating but  indescribable  quality  which  we  call 
a  gift.  A  few  men  have  it;  the  animals  instinc- 
tively trust  them,  and  they  understand  animals 
without  knowing  how  they  understand.  The  rest, 
lacking  it,  must  struggle  against  a  handicap  to 
learn,  substituting  the  slow  wisdom  of  experience 
for  the  quick  insight  of  the  gift.  It  is  for  the  lat- 
ter chiefly  that  I  write  these  wood  notes. 

One  word  more  by  way  of  preface,  to  express  the 
conviction  that  you  can  learn  nothing  worth  know- 
ing about  birds  or  beasts  so  long  as  you  seek  them 
with  a  gun  in  your  hand.  On  that  road  you  shall 
find  only  common  dust,  and  at  the  end  of  it  a 
valley  of  dry  bones.  Whether  you  carry  the  gun 
frankly  for  sport,  or  delude  yourself  with  the  no- 
tion that  you  can  add  to  natural  history  by  collect- 

[176] 


On  Getting  Acquainted 


ing  more  skins  or  skulls,  you  have  unconsciously 
placed  destruction  above  fulfilment,  stark  death 
above  the  beautiful  mystery  of  life.  So  must  you 
estrange  both  the  animal  and  yourself,  making  it 
impossible  for  you  to  meet  on  any  common  ground 
of  understanding.  And  now  for  our  lessons: 

If  I  were  to  formulate  rules  for  a  subject  which 
can  never  be  learned  by  the  book,  I  might  say  that 
there  are  three  things  you  should  know,  and 
another  you  must  do,  if  you  expect  to  gain  any 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  wood  folk,  or  even  to 
approach  them  near  enough  for  fair  and  leisurely 
observation. 

The  first  thing  to  know  is  that  natural  creatures, 
though  instinctively  shy  or  timid,  are  not  wildly 
governed  by  fears  and  terrors,  as  we  have  been 
misinformed  from  our  youth  up.  The  "reign  of 
terror"  is  another  of  those  pet  scientific  delusions, 
like  the  "struggle  for  existence,"  for  which  there  is 
no  basis  in  nature.  Fear  in  any  true  sense  of  the 
word  is  an  exclusively  human  possession,  or  afflic- 
tion ;  it  is  a  physical  and  moral  poison,  as  artificial 
as  sin,  which  the  animal  escapes  by  virtue  of  being 
natural.  It  is  doubtful,  indeed,  whether  anything 
remotely  resembling  our  fear,  a  state  of  mind  aris- 
ing from  a  highly  developed  imagination  which 
enables  us  to  picture  events  before  they  happen, 

[i77l 


How  Animals  Talk 


is  ever  born  into  a  hairy  skin  or  hatched  out  of  an 
egg.  The  natural  timidity  of  all  wild  creatures  is 
a  protective  and  wholesome  instinct,  radically  dif- 
ferent from  the  fear  which  makes  cowards  of  men 
who  have  learned  to  trace  causes  and  to  anticipate 
consequences. 

So  much  for  the  mental  analysis ;  and  your  eyes 
emphasize  the  same  conclusion  when  you  look 
frankly  upon  the  natural  world.  The  very  attitude 
or  visible  expression  of  birds  or  beasts  when  you 
meet  them  in  their  native  woods,  feeding,  playing, 
resting,  seeking  their  mates,  or  roving  freely  with 
their  little  ones  (all  pleasurable  matters,  constitut- 
ing nine-tenths  or  more  of  animal  existence),  is 
enough  in  itself  to  refute  the  absurd  notion  of  a 
general  reign  of  terror  in  nature.  If  you  are  wise, 
therefore,  you  will  get  rid  of  that  prejudice,  or  at 
least  hold  it  in  abeyance  till  the  animals  themselves 
teach  you  how  senseless  it  is.  To  go  out  obsessed 
with  the  notion  of  fear  is  to  blind  your  eyes  to  the 
great  comedy  of  the  woods. 

The  second  thing  to  know,  and  to  remember 
when  you  go  forth  to  see,  is  that  sensitive  creatures 
dislike  to  be  watched,  and  become  uneasy  when 
they  find  a  pair  of  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  them. 
You  yourself  retain  something  of  this  ancient 
animal  inheritance,  it  seems,  since  there  is  nothing 
which  more  surely  excites  alarm  if  you  are  timid,  or 

[178] 


On  Getting  Acquainted 


challenge  if  you  are  well  balanced,  or  anger  if  you 
have  a  fighting  spirit,  than  to  have  a  stranger 
watching  your  every  move  while  you  go  about 
your  lawful  affairs.  The  fact  that  you  cannot 
word  a  reason  for  your  alarm  or  challenge  or  anger 
makes  you  all  the  more  certain  that  you  have  an 
unanswerable  reason;  which  is  your  inborn  right 
to  be  let  alone. 

This  natural  and  inalienable  right  (which  so- 
ciety curbs  for  its  own  protection,  and  reform 
societies  trample  on  for  their  peculiar  pleasure) 
may  help  you  to  understand  why  the  animal  be- 
comes alarmed  when  he  finds  you  watching  him 
closely.  He  desires  above  all  things  else,  above  his 
dinner  even,  to  be  let  alone;  and  your  eye  may  as 
surely  disturb  his  peace,  his  self-possession,  his  sense 
of  security,  as  any  gun  you  may  shoot  at  him  or 
any  fire  you  may  kindle  in  his  fragrant  domain. 

You  have  but  to  think  a  moment  in  order  to 
understand  why  even  your  look  may  be  too  dis- 
turbing. When  a  beast  of  prey  sees  a  buck  that 
he  wants  to  catch,  what  is  his  invariable  mode  of 
procedure?  First  he  hides,  then  he  creeps  or 
skulks  or  waits,  all  the  while  keeping  his  eyes 
fastened  upon  his  victim,  watching  every  move 
with  fierce  intensity  till  the  moment  comes  to 
spring.  It  follows,  naturally  enough,  that  when 
the  same  beast  of  prey  finds  other  eyes  fixed  upon 

[179] 


How  Animals  Talk 


himself,  he  knows  well  what  the  look  means,  that 
a  rush  will  swiftly  follow;  and  he  anticipates  the 
rush  by  taking  to  his  heels.  Or  the  buck,  having 
once  escaped  the  charge  of  a  hunting  beast,  will 
remember  his  experience  the  next  time  he  finds 
himself  an  object  of  scrutiny,  and  will  flee  from 
it  as  from  any  other  discomfort. 

Whether  this  action  is  the  result  of  instinctive 
or  deductive  knowledge  is  here  of  no  consequence: 
let  the  psychologists  pick  a  bone  over  it.  Since 
we  have  in  our  heads  a  strong  aversion  to  being 
observed  too  closely,  we  are  probably  facing  an 
instinct,  which  is  stronger  in  the  brute  than  in  the 
man;  but  it  is  the  fact,  not  the  explanation  thereof, 
which  is  important.  The  simple  fact  is,  that  wild 
birds  and  beasts  will  not  endure  watching;  and 
you  begin  to  sympathize  with  their  notion  when 
you  mark  the  eyes  of  a  stalking  cat,  with  their 
terrible  fire  just  before  she  springs.  There  is 
always  more  or  less  of  that  fire  in  a  watchful  eye ; 
you  may  see  it  glow  or  blaze  under  a  man's  nar- 
rowed lids  before  he  takes  quick  action ;  and  it  is  the 
kindling  of  that  dangerous  light  which  a  sensitive 
creature  expects  and  avoids  when  he  finds  you 
watching  him. 

Did  you  ever  follow  an  old  cock-partridge  in 
the  woods  with  intent  to  kill  him?  If  so,  you 
have  a  living  picture  of  the  truth  I  have  explained 

[i8ol 


On  Getting  Acquainted 


theoretically.  Near  our  towns  the  partridge  (ruffed 
grouse)  is  very  wild,  taking  wing  at  your  approach; 
but  in  the  deep  woods  he  is  almost  fearless.  Even 
when  you  stumble  into  a  flock  of  the  birds,  fright- 
ening them  out  of  their  calm,  they  are  apt  to 
flit  into  the  trees  and  remain  absolutely  motion- 
less. They  are  then  hard  to  find,  so  well  do  they 
blend  with  their  background ;  and  if  they  are  young 
birds,  they  will  hold  still  after  you  discover  them. 
Since  they  were  helpless  chicks  they  have  trusted 
to  quietness  to  conceal  them;  it  serves  them  very 
well,  much  better  than  running  away  from  stronger 
enemies;  and  the  habit  is  strong  upon  them,  as 
upon  young  ducks  and  other  game-birds  before 
they  have  learned  to  trust  their  wings.  But  when 
you  stumble  upon  an  old  cock-grouse  you  meet  a 
bird  that  has  added  experience  to  instinct,  and 
that  knows  when  to  move  as  well  as  when  to  sit 
still.  He  dodges  out  of  sight  as  you  raise  your 
rifle ;  as  you  follow  him  he  bursts  away  on  whirring 
wings  and  slants  up  into  a  tree  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  wood.  Marking  where  he  lights,  you  try 
to  find  him,  cat-footing  around  his  perch,  peering 
into  every  tree-top,  putting  a  "crik"  in  the  back 
of  your  neck.  For  a  half-hour,  it  may  be,  you 
search  for  him  in  vain;  suddenly  there  he  is,  and— 
b'r-r-r-r!  he  is  gone.  The  odd  thing  is  that  he 
sits  still  so  long  as  you  cannot  find  him;  not  a 

13  [ 181  ] 


How  Animals  Talk 


feather  stirs  or  a  foot  shifts  or  an  eyelid  blinks 
even  when  your  glance  roves  blindly  over  him; 
you  may  give  him  up  and  go  away,  leaving  him 
motionless;  but  the  instant  you  see  him  he  seems 
to  know  it,  and  in  that  instant  he  is  off.  This  is 
not  a  single  or  an  accidental  but  a  typical  ex- 
perience; any  woodsman  who  has  hunted  ruffed 
grouse  with  a  rifle  will  smile  as  he  tells  you, 
"That's  true;  but  I  can't  explain  it." 

A  third  bit  of  woods  lore,  of  which  we  shall 
presently  make  good  use,  is  that  natural  birds  and 
animals  have,  a  lively  interest  in  every  new  or 
strange  thing  they  meet.  Far  from  being  occu- 
pied in  a  constant  struggle  for  existence,  as  the 
books  misinform  us,  their  lives  are  full  of  leisure; 
they  have  plentiful  hours  for  rest  or  play  or  rov- 
ing, and  in  these  idle  times  they  get  most  of  their 
fun  out  of  life  by  indulging  their  curiosity.  I 
fancy  that  in  this  respect,  also,  most  people  are 
still  natural  creatures,  seeing  that  men  or  women 
in  a  crowd  are  as  easily  set  to  stretching  their 
necks  as  any  flock  of  ducks  or  band  of  caribou. 

So  strong  is  the  animal's  inquisitive  instinct 
(for  it  surely  is  an  instinct,  the  basis  of  all  educa- 
tion, and  without  it  we  should  be  fools,  learning 
nothing)  that  he  will  readily  give  over  his  play 
or  even  his  feeding  to  investigate  any  new  thing 
which  catches  his  attention.  I  speak  now  not  of 

[182] 


On  Getting  Acquainted 


fearsome  things,  which  may  properly  alarm  the 
wood  folk,  but  of  pretty  or  harmless  or  attractive 
things,  such  as  the  repeated  flash  of  a  looking- 
glass  or  the  rhythmic  swing  of  a  handkerchief  or  a 
whistled  tune,  which  commonly  bring  wild  creat- 
ures nearer  with  forward-set  ears  and  eyes  with 
questions  in  them.  In  a  word,  so  far  as  I  have  ob- 
served birds  and  beasts,  their  first  or  natural  atti- 
tude toward  every  new  object,  unless  it  be  raising 
fearful  smells  or  moving  toward  them  with  hostile 
intent,  is  invariably  one  of  curiosity  rather  than 
of  fear. 

One  proof  of  this  universal  trait,  to  me,  is  that 
when  I  approach  wild  animals  carelessly  they 
often  run  away;  but  of  the  hundreds  that  have 
approached  me  when  I  was  quiet  in  the  woods, 
every  one  without  exception  showed  plainly  by 
his  action  that  he  was  keen  to  find  out  who  or 
what  I  might  be.  Young  animals  are  more  in- 
quisitive than  old,  having  everything  to  learn, 
and  they  are  easily  attracted;  but  age  cannot 
stale  the  wonder  of  the  world  for  them,  and  I 
have  never  chanced  to  meet  an  old  doe,  no,  nor  a 
tough  old  bull  moose,  that  did  not  come  near  to 
question  me  if  the  chance  were  given.  Of  the 
larger  wood  folk  Mooween  the  bear  is  perhaps  the 
least  inquisitive;  yet  once  an  old  bear  came  so 
close  to  me,  his  eyes  a  question  and  his  nose  an 

[183] 


How  Animals  Talk 


exclamation  point,  that  I  could  have  touched  him 
before  his  curiosity  was  satisfied;  and  several 
times,  when  I  have  been  watching  the  berry- 
fields,  a  bear  and  her  cubs  have  noticed  some  slight 
motion  of  mine  and  have  left  their  feast  of  blue- 
berries to  approach  rather  too  near  for  my  comfort. 
At  close  quarters  an  old  she-bear  is  a  little  uncer- 
tain. Commonly  she  runs  away  in  sudden  panic; 
but  should  you  get  between  her  and  her  cub,  and 
the  piggish  little  fellow  squeal  out  as  if  frightened 
or  hurt,  she  may  fly  into  a  fury  and  become 
dangerous  to  a  man  unarmed. 

The  obvious  thing  to  do,  in  view  of  what  has  been 
learned,  is  to  hold  physically  and  mentally  still 
when  you  meet  a  wild  animal,  and  so  take  ad- 
vantage of  his  curiosity.  That  is  very  easy  when 
he  happens  to  find  you  at  rest,  for  then  he  is  bound 
to  find  out  something  about  you  before  he  goes; 
but  even  when  he  catches  you  afoot  you  may  still 
have  a  fair  chance  if  you  stop  in  your  tracks  and 
move  no  muscle  while  he  is  looking.  Remember 
that  so  long  as  you  are  motionless  you  puzzle 
him;  that  you  should  advance  only  when  his  head 
is  turned  away,  and  that  you  should  never  move 
directly  at  any  animal,  but  to  one  side,  as  if  you 
would  give  him  plenty  of  room  in  passing.  If  you 
must  change  your  position  or  attitude  while  he  is 
looking,  move  gently  and  very  slowly,  avoiding 

[184] 


On  Getting  Acquainted 


every  appearance  of  haste  or  nervousness.  If  he 
vanishes  after  one  keen  look,  be  sure  he  is  a 
veteran  that  has  seen  men  before,  and  bide  still 
where  you  are.  The  chances  are  ten  to  one  that 
no  sooner  does  he  think  himself  hidden  than  he 
will  turn  to  have  another  look  .at  you.  It  is 
always  in  your  favor,  since  you  have  the  better 
eyes,  that  an  animal  has  the  habit  of  concealment, 
and  so  long  as  you  pretend  not  to  see  him  he  is 
very  apt  to  think  himself  unseen. 

Such  a  method  applies  particularly  well  to  all 
members  of  the  deer  family,  with  their  insatiable 
curiosity;  but  it  serves  almost  as  well  with  beasts 
of  prey,  which  may  be  so  surprised  by  meeting  a 
motionless  man  that  they  will  often  "  point "  him 
in  a  way  to  suggest  a  setter  pointing  a  woodcock. 
We  think  of  the  fox,  for  example,  as  the  most 
cunning  of  animals;  like  the  dolls'  dressmaker  in 
Our  Mutual  Friend,  he  seems  to  be  saying,  "Oh, 
I  know  your  tricks  and  your  manners";  yet  on 
a  good  tracking-snow  I  have  trailed  many  foxes 
to  their  day-beds,  and  have  found  that  with  few 
exceptions  they  act  in  the  same  half-puzzled,  half- 
inquisitive  way.  And  this  is  the  fashion  of  it : 

Looking  far  ahead  on  the  dainty  trail  you  sud- 
denly catch  a  glimpse  of  orange  color,  very  warm 
against  the  cold  whiteness  of  the  snow,  which  tells 
you  where  Eleemos  the  sly  one,  as  Simmo  calls 

[185] 


How  Animals  Talk 


him,  is  curled  on  a  warm  rock  or  stump  with  the 
winter  sunshine  fair  upon  him.  Then  you  must 
leave  the  trail,  as  if  you  were  not  following  it,  and 
advance  on  noiseless  feet  till  the  fox  raises  his  head, 
when  you  must  "  freeze  "  in  your  tracks.  If  he  is 
a  tramp  fox  (that  is,  one  which  has  come  hunting 
here  out  of  his  own  territory)  or  a  veteran  that 
has  already  seen  too  much  of  men  and  their 
devices,  he  will  dodge  out  of  sight  and  be  seen  no 
more ;  but  if  he  is  an  ordinary  young  fox,  especially 
a  cub  weathering  his  first  winter,  he  will  almost 
certainly  investigate  that  odd  motionless  object 
which  was  not  there  when  he  went  to  sleep.  After 
"pointing"  you  a  moment  he  slips  into  the  near- 
est cover,  not  turning  his  head  in  your  direc- 
tion, but  watching  you  keenly  out  of  the  corners 
of  his  yellow  eyes.  When  he  thinks  himself  hid- 
den from  your  sight  he  circles  to  get  your  wind; 
and  on  this  side  or  that  you  will  have  two  or  three 
good  glimpses  of  him  before  he  floats  away — or 
seems  to,  so  lightly  does  he  run — to  hunt  up 
another  day-bed.  Your  last  view  of  him  shows 
a  slyly  inquisitive  little  beast,  perfectly  self- 
possessed;  but  as  he  disappears  you  notice  a 
nervous,  quivering,  fluttering  motion  of  his  great 
brush,  which  gives  him  away  as  a  tail  betrays  a 
dog,  and  which  says  that  Eleemos  is  greatly  ex- 
cited or  puzzled  over  something. 

[186] 


On  Getting  Acquainted 


Better  than  roaming  noisily  through  the  woods 
in  search  of  game  is  to  sit  still  and  let  the  game  come 
to  you — an  arrangement  which  puts  you  at  your 
ease,  and  at  the  same  time  encourages  the  animal 
to  indulge  his  curiosity  without  alarm.  You  may 
not  see  so  many  birds  or  beasts  in  this  way,  but 
some  of  them  you  shall  see  much  more  intimately; 
and  a  single  inquisitive  jay  may  teach  you  more 
of  nature  than  all  the  bird  books  in  the  world, 
as  I  have  learned  more  of  Latin  humanity  from 
Angelo,  who  polishes  my  shoes,  than  from  Gib- 
bon's Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 
Very  often,  if  you  hold  perfectly  still,  a  wild 
animal  will  pass  down  the  runway  close  at  hand 
without  even  seeing  you,  and  you  must  draw  his 
attention  by  a  chirp  or  a  slight  motion.  Then, 
when  he  whirls  upon  you  in  astonishment,  his  eyes 
saying  that  he  was  never  so  surprised  in  his  life, 
observe  him  casually  as  it  were,  veiling  your  in- 
terest and  never  staring  at  him  as  if  he  were  a 
wild  or  strange  beast,  but  greeting  him  rather  as 
one  you  have  long  known. 

At  such  a  moment  quietness  is  the  best  medicine 
— quietness  and  friendly  eyes.  If  the  animal 
wavers,  a  low  song  or  a  whistled  tune  may  or  may 
not  be  helpful;  it  depends  entirely  on  the  tune. 
You  are  to  keep  physically  quiet,  because  any 
sudden  motion  will  alarm  the  sensitive  creature, 

[187] 


How  Animals  Talk 


so  near  is  he  to  the  unknown ;  and  mentally  quiet, 
because  excitement  is  as  contagious  as  fear  or 
measles,  or  any  other  disease  of  mind  or  body. 
When  I  am  alone  in  the  woods  wild  animals  are 
rarely  hard  to  approach,  and  when  I  am  sitting 
quietly  by  a  runway  they  show  no  fear  of  me 
whatever,  drawing  near  with  questioning  eyes  or 
moving  away  reluctantly;  but  when  I  take  an- 
other with  me,  especially  one  who  grows  excited 
in  the  presence  of  big  game,  the  same  animals 
appear  suspicious,  uneasy,  and  end  by  bolting 
away  as  if  we  had  frightened  them. 

One  day  there  came  to  my  camp  a  friend  who 
was  eager  to  see  a  deer  at  close  range,  but  who 
was  doubtful  of  my  assurance  that  animals  could 
neither  see  nor  smell  him  if  he  knew  how  to  hold 
still.  When  I  promised  him  a  deer  at  ten  feet  he 
jumped  for  his  camera,  saying  that  in  such  an 
incredible  event  he  would  get  what  he  had  always 
wanted,  a  picture  of  the  graceful  creature  against 
a  background  of  his  native  woods,  in  soft  light  and 
shadow  instead  of  the  glaring  black-and-white  of 
a  flashlight.  At  that  disturbing  proposition  all 
his  doubts  moved  into  me,  who  have  always  found 
camera  folk  a  fidgety  folk.  What  with  their  fussing 
and  focusing  and  everlasting  uneasiness  over  dis- 
tance or  time  or  shutter,  or  something  else  which 
is  never  right  and  ready,  they  are  sure  to  bedevil 

Fi881 


On  Getting  Acquainted 


any  wild  creature  before  he  comes  within  speak- 
ing distance;  so  I  took  my  friend  and  his  camera 
along  without  faith,  hoping  for  the  best. 

Our  stand  was  a  hardwood  ridge  where  deer  often 
passed  on  their  way  to  the  lake,  and  we  had  been 
sitting  there  hardly  an  hour  when  I  saw  a  young 
spikebuck  coming  down  the  runway.  The  next 
moment  there  was  a  gasping  "Oh,  there's  a  deer!" 
from  the  man  who  had  been  warned  to  keep 
mentally  still.  Then  began  the  inevitable  tinker- 
ing with  the  camera,  which  had  been  thrice  pre- 
pared and  was  still  as  unready  as  all  its  kind. 
More  than  once  I  had  sat  in  that  precise  spot 
while  deer  passed  at  a  distance  of  three  or  four 
yards  without  noticing  me ;  but  now  the  little  buck 
caught  an  uneasy  motion  and  halted  with  head 
high  and  eyes  flashing.  If  ever  there  was  a  chance 
for  a  wonderful  picture,  he  offered  it;  but  he  did 
not  like  the  focusing,  or  whatever  it  was,  and 
after  endless  delay  the  camera  clicked  on  a  white 
flag  bobbing  among  the  shadows,  where  it  looked 
in  the  negative  like  a  smear  of  sunlight. 

The  camera  reminds  me  of  another  way  of  ap- 
proaching deer,  a  way  often  followed  by  summer 
campers;  namely,  by  chasing  the  swimming  ani- 
mal in  a  canoe.  I  have  but  one  word  to  say  of  such 
a  method,  and  that  is,  Don't!  When  a  deer  is 

[189] 


How  Animals  Talk 


crossing  broad  water  you  can  get  as  close  to  him 
as  you  will;  you  can  take  a  grip  on  him  and  let 
him  tow  your  canoe,  as  thoughtless  people  some- 
times do,  encouraged  by  their  guides;  but  I  sug- 
gest that  it  would  be  much  better  to  shoot  the 
creature  and  have  done  with  it. 

A  deer's  powers  are  very  delicately  balanced; 
he  is  nervous,  high  strung,  easily  upset.  Even  on 
land,  where  he  can  distance  you  in  a  moment,  he 
begins  to  worry  if  he  finds  you  holding  steadily  to 
his  trail;  and  I  have  known  a  young  deer  to  be- 
come so  flustered  after  he  had  been  jumped  and 
followed  a  few  times  that  he  began  to  act  in  most 
erratic  fashion,  and  was  very  easily  approached. 
When  you  chase  him  in  the  water,  and  he  finds  that 
he  cannot  get  away  from  you,  he  may  give  up  and 
drown,  as  a  rabbit  submits  without  a  struggle 
when  a  weasel  rises  in  front  of  him;  but  a  vigorous 
deer  is  more  apt  to  become  highly  excited,  to 
struggle  wildly,  to  waste  ten  times  as  much  energy 
as  would  keep  him  afloat,  to  jump  his  heart  action 
at  a  dangerous  rate;  and  then  a  very  little  more 
will  finish  him  as  surely  as  a  bullet  in  the  brain. 

Twice  have  I  seen  deer  thus  killed  by  thought- 
less campers,  the  last  victim  being  a  splendid  buck 
full  grown.  Two  men  saw  him  swimming  an  arm 
of  Moosehead  Lake,  and  launched  a  canoe  with  no 
unkinder  purpose  than  to  turn  him  back  to  shore, 

[190] 


On  Getting  Acquainted 


so  that  a  party  of  sportsmen  there  might  get 
a  picture  of  him.  The  buck  labored  mightily;  but 
the  paddles  were  swift,  and  wherever  he  turned 
the  danger  appeared  close  in  front  of  him.  Sud- 
denly he  rose  in  the  water,  pawing  the  air,  and 
heaved  over  on  his  side.  When  the  canoe  reached 
him  he  was  dead ;  and  the  surprising  thing  is  that 
dissection  revealed  no  ruptured  blood-vessel  nor 
any  other  visible  cause  of  his  death.  It  was 
probably  a  matter  of  heart  paralysis.  Such  an 
ending  was  unusual,  I  know;  but  undoubtedly 
many  of  these  overwrought  animals  reach  shore 
exhausted,  spent  to  the  limit,  and  lie  down  in  the 
first  good  cover,  never  to  rise  again. 

Moose  and  caribou  are  stronger  swimmers  than 
deer,  and  of  tougher  fiber;  but  it  is  still  dangerous, 
I  think,  to  chase  them  in  the  water.  Once  I  saw 
a  canoe  following  close  behind  a  cow  and  a  calf 
moose,  the  canoeists  yelling  wildly  to  hurry  up 
the  pace.  Had  they  thought  to  look  once  into 
the  eyes  of  the  struggling  brutes,  they  might  have 
learned  something  which  they  ought  to  know.  As 
the  calf  lagged  farther  and  farther  behind,  the 
mother  turned  to  come  between  him  and  the  canoe, 
and  remained  there  trying  to  urge  and  push  the 
little  fellow  along.  So  they  reached  shallow  water 
at  last,  found  their  footing,  and  plunged  into  the 
cover.  The  canoe  turned  away,  and  no  doubt  the 

[191] 


How  Animals  Talk 


incident  was  soon  forgotten.  I  fitever  saw  the 
canoemen  again,  but  I  saw  one  of  the  moose.  A 
few  days  later,  in  passing  through  the  woods  on 
that  side  of  the  lake,  I  found  the  calf  stretched  out 
dead  where  he  had  fallen,  not  fifty  yards  from  the 
water's  edge. 

Perhaps  another  "don't"  should  here  be  mem- 
orized for  the  happy  occasion  when  you  find  a 
fawn  or  a  little  cub  in  the  woods,  and  are  moved 
most  kindly  to  pet  him.  If  the  mother  is  half- 
tame,  or  has  lived  near  a  clearing  long  enough  to 
lose  distrust  of  the  man-scent,  it  may  do  no  harm 
to  treat  her  fawn  or  cub  as  you  would  a  puppy; 
but  to  handle  any  wild  little  creature  is  to  do  him 
an  injury.  Until  a  fawn  is  strong  enough  to  travel 
the  rough  country  in  which  he  was  born,  the  doe 
often  leaves  him  hidden  in  the  woods,  where  he  lies 
so  close  and  still  that  you  may  pass  without  seeing 
him.  Once  you  discover  him,  however,  and  he 
knows  that  he  is  seen,  his  beautiful  eyes  begin  to 
question  you  with  a  great  wonder.  He  has  no 
fear  of  you  whatever  (this  while  he  is  very  young, 
or  before  he  begins  to  follow  his  mother) ;  he  will 
sometimes  follow  you  when  you  go  away,  and  he 
is  such  a  lovable  creature,  so  innocent  and  so 
appealing,  that  it  is  hard  to  keep  your  hands  from 
him.  Let  him  sniff  your  palm  if  he  will,  or  lick 
it  with  his  rough  tongue  for  the  faint  taste  of  salt ; 

[192] 


ro  innocent  and  so  appealing  that  it  is  hard  to  keep  your  hands  from 
him. 


On  Getting  Acquainted 


but  as  you  value  his  life  don't  pet  him  or  leave 
the  scent  of  you  on  his  delicate  skin.  A  wild 
mother  knows  her  own  by  the  sense  of  smell  chiefly ; 
if  she  finds  the  startling  man-scent  where  she 
expected  a  familiar  odor,  she  becomes  instantly 
alarmed,  and  then  the  little  one  is  a  stranger  to 
her  or  a  source  of  violent  anger. 

Once,  before  I  learned  better  than  to  handle  any 
helpless  cub,  I  saw  a  doe  drive  her  own  fawn 
roughly  away  from  her,  out  of  my  sight  and  hear- 
ing. I  had  petted  the  fawn  a  little  (a  very  little, 
I  am  glad  to  remember)  and  looked  with  wonder 
on  the  mother's  anger,  not  understanding  it  till 
some  time  later,  when  I  learned  of  a  similar  incident 
with  a  sadder  ending.  Not  far  from  my  camp  a 
sportsman  with  his  guide  found  a  fawn  hidden 
near  the  stream  where  they  were  fishing,  and  being 
completely  won  by  the  beautiful  innocent,  as  most 
men  are,  they  petted  him  to  their  hearts'  content. 
When  an  old  doe,  the  mother  presumably,  ap- 
peared heading  in  their  direction  they  thought- 
fully withdrew,  hiding  at  a  distance  to  watch  the 
family  reunion.  The  doe  seemed  to  hasten  her 
steps  when  she  saw  that  the  fawn  was  on  his  feet, 
instead  of  lying  close  where  she  had  left  him; 
but  when  near  him  she  suddenly  stiffened,  with  the 
hair  bristling  on  her  neck.  Two  or  three  times 
she  thrust  out  her  nose,  only  to  back  away,  and 

[193 1  " 


How  Animals  Talk 


once  she  raised  the  harsh  alarm-cry  that  a  doe 
utters  when  she  smells  danger.  Then,  as  the  little 
fellow  trotted  up  to  her  on  his  wabbly  legs,  she 
leaped  upon  him  in  fury  and  trampled  him  to 
death. 


VIII 

TO  return  to  our  first  lesson,  of  quietude:  it 
was  impressed  upon  me  unconsciously,  like 
most  good  lessons,  before  I  had  any  thought  that 
I  was  learning  the  true  way  of  the  woods.  The 
teacher  was  Nature  herself  (she  seldom  fails  to 
quiet  boy  or  man  if  left  alone  with  him),  and  the 
school-room  was  a  lonely  berry-pasture  surrounded 
by  pine  and  hardwood  forests.  The  berry-pickers, 
a  happy  and  carefree  lot,  often  let  me  go  with 
them  while  I  was  yet  too  small  to  find  my  way 
among  the  tall  swamp-blueberry  bushes,  and 
would  leave  me  under  a  tree  at  the  edge  of  the 
woods,  with  an  armful  of  berry-laden  branches  to 
keep  me  busy  while  they  wandered  far  away  in 

[i9Sl 


How  Animals  Talk 


search  of  the  best  picking.  Sitting  there  in  the 
breathing  solitude,  occupied  with  the  task  of  filling 
my  tin  cup  with  berries  and  well  content  with  my 
lot  (for  the  woods  always  had  a  fascination  for 
me,  and  seemed  most  friendly  when  I  was  alone), 
I  would  presently  "feel"  that  something  was 
watching  me.  There  was  never  any  suggestion  of 
fear  in  the  impression,  only  an  awakening  to  the 
fact  that  I  was  not  alone,  that  some  living  thing 
was  near  me.  Then,  as  I  looked  up  expectantly, 
I  would  almost  always  find  a  bird  slipping  noise- 
lessly through  the  branches  overhead,  or  a  beastie 
creeping  through  the  cover  at  my  side ;  and  in  his 
bright  eyes,  his  shy  approach,  his  withdrawal  to 
appear  in  another  spot,  I  read  plainly  enough  that 
he  was  asking  who  I  was  or  what  I  was  doing 
there.  And  by  a  whistled  tune  or  a  drumming  on 
my  cup,  or  by  flashing  a  sunbeam  into  his  eyes 
from  a  pocket  glass,  I  always  tried  to  hold  him  as 
long  as  I  could. 

This  curious  sense  or  feeling  of  being  watched, 
by  the  way,  is  very  real  in  some  men,  who  do  not 
regard  it  as  a  matter  of  chance  or  imagination.  I 
have  known  of  two  elaborate  courses  of  "labora- 
tory" experiments  which  aimed  to  determine  how 
far  such  a  feeling  is  trustworthy,  and  both  re- 
sulted in  a  neutral  or  fifty-fifty  conclusion;  but 
I  wonder,  if  the  experiments  had  been  tried  on 

'  [196] 


On  Keeping  Still 


Indians  or  natural  men  under  natural  conditions, 
whether  the  result  might  not  have  been  quite 
different.  The  fact  that  the  first  fifty  men  you 
meet  get  lost  or  turned  around  in  a  ^trackless 
forest  is  significant  for  the  fifty,  and  for  the  vast 
majority  of  others;  but  it  means  nothing  to  the 
one  bushman  who  can  go  where  he  will  without 
thought  or  possibility  of  being  lost,  because  of  his 
sure  sense  of  direction. 

So,  possibly,  with  this  feeling  of  being  watched : 
it  may  be  too  intangible  for  experiment,  or  even 
for  definition.  Many  times  since  childhood  when 
I  have  been  alone  in  the  big  woods,  fishing  or  hold- 
ing vigil  by  a  wilderness  lake,  I  have  the  feeling, 
at  times  vaguely  and  again  definitely,  that  strange 
eyes  were  upon  me.  Occasionally,  it  is  true,  I  have 
found  nothing  on  looking  around,  either  because 
no  animal  was  there  or  because  he  was  too  well 
hidden  to  be  seen ;  but  much  more  often  the  feeling 
proved  true  to  fact — so  often,  indeed,  that  I  soon 
came  to  trust  it  without  doubt  or  question,  as 
Simmo  my  Indian  still  does,  and  a  few  other 
woodsmen  I  have  known.  It  is  possible  that  one's 
ears  or  nose  may  account  for  the  feeling;  that  some 
faint  sound  or  odor  may  make  itself  felt  so  faintly 
that  one  has  the  impression  of  life  without  knowing 
through  what  channel  the  impression  is  received. 
Of  that  I  am  not  at  all  sure;  at  the  moment  it 

14  [  197  ] 


How  Animals  Talk 


seems  that  some  extra  sense  is  at  work,  more  sub- 
tle than  smell  or  hearing;  and,  whether  rightly  or 
wrongly,  it  is  apparently  associated  with  the  pene- 
trating stare  of  an  animal's  eyes  on  your  back. 

To  quote  but  a  single  incident,  out  of  several  that 
come  to  my  memory:  I  was  once  sitting  on  the 
shore  of  a  lake  at  twilight,  wholly  intent  on  follow- 
ing the  antics  of  a  bull  moose  I  had  called  into  the 
open.  He  was  on  the  other  side  of  a  small  bay, 
ranging  up  and  down,  listening,  threshing  the 
bushes  with  his  antlers,  blowing  his  penny- 
trumpet  at  intervals, — in  a  dozen  impatient  ways 
showing  what  a  young  and  foolish  moose  he  was. 
A  veteran  would  have  kept  to  the  cover  till  he  had 
located  what  he  came  for.  I  had  ceased  my  bel- 
lowing when  the  bull  first  answered,  had  been 
thrilled  by  his  rush  through  the  woods,  had  cheered 
him  silently  when  he  burst  into  the  open,  grunting 
and  challenging  like  a  champion;  now  I  was 
quietly  enjoying  his  bewilderment  at  not  finding 
the  tantalizing  cow  he  had  just  heard  calling. 
He  did  not  see  or  suspect  me;  I  had  the  comedy  all 
to  myself,  and  was  keenly  interested  to  know  how 
he  would  act  when  he  rounded  the  bay,  as  he 
certainly  would,  and  found  me  sitting  in  his  path. 
Because  he  was  big  and  truculent  and  a  fool,  I  did 
not  know  what  to  expect ;  my  canoe  floated  ready 
against  the  outer  end  of  a  stranded  log,  where  a 

[198] 


On  Keeping  Still 


push  would  send  it  and  me  into  deep  water.  I 
mention  these  details  simply  to  show  where  my 
thoughts  were. 

As  I  watched  the  play  in  the  hushed  twilight, 
suddenly  came  the  feeling  that  something  was 
watching  me.  The  bull  had  started  around  the 
bay  in  my  direction;  possibly  his  eyes  had  picked 
me  out — but  no,  he  was  in  plain  sight,  and  the 
feeling  is  always  associated  with  something  unseen. 
Without  changing  position  I  looked  carefully  all 
about,  searching  the  lake  and  especially  the  woods, 
which  were  already  in  deep  shadow.  Finding  no 
bird  or  beast,  no  motion,  nothing  alarming,  I 
turned  to  question  the  bull,  who  had  halted  to 
sound  his  ridiculous  trumpet.  He  was  perhaps 
fifty  or  sixty  yards  away.  He  had  not  yet  seen 
me;  I  had  no  fear  of  him,  no  anxiety  whatever; 
yet  again  came  the  feeling,  this  time  insistent, 
compelling,  as  if  some  one  had  touched  me  and 
said,  "Get  away!"  I  did  so  promptly,  jumping  to 
my  feet;  and  out  of  a  fir  thicket  behind  me  charged 
another  bull  that  I  had  not  dreamed  of  calling. 

By  his  size,  his  antlers,  his  fierce  grunting,  I 
recognized  this  brute  on  the  instant.  I  had  met 
him  before,  once  on  a  trail,  once  on  the  lake  shore, 
and  had  given  him  all  the  room  he  wanted.  He 
was  a  grizzled  old  bull,  morose  and  ugly,  that 
seemed  to  have  lost  his  native  fear  of  man — from 

[i99l 


How  Animals  Talk 


a  galling  wound,  perhaps,  or  from  living  an  out- 
cast life  by  himself.  He  was  a  little  crazy,  I 
judged.  That  he  was  dangerous  I  knew  from  the 
fact  that  he  had  previously  made  an  unprovoked 
attack  upon  my  Indian.  He,  too,  had  heard  the 
call;  had  approached  it  from  behind  as  stealthily 
as  a  cat,  and  had  no  doubt  watched  me,  puzzled 
by  my  stillness,  till  my  first  decided  motion 
brought  him  out  on  the  jump.  But  I  am  wan- 
dering away  from  the  small  boy  getting  his  first 
lessons  in  the  woods,  and  learning  that  the  im- 
portant thing  is  to  hold  perfectly  still. 

Later,  when  eight  or  nine  years  old,  I  went  alone 
day  after  summer  day  to  the  wild  berry-pastures. 
When  my  big  pail  would  hold  no  more,  I  would 
make  a  bowl  by  bashing  in  the  top  of  my  hat,  and 
fill  it  to  the  brim  with  luscious  blueberries.  These 
with  a  generous  slice  of  bread  made  an  excellent 
lunch,  which  I  always  ate  within  sight  of  a  bird's 
nest,  or  the  den  of  a  fox,  or  some  other  abode  of 
life  that  I  had  discovered  in  the  woods.  And 
again,  as  I  sat  quiet  in  the  solitude,  the  birds  and 
small  animals  might  be  led  by  curiosity  to  ap- 
proach as  fearlessly  as  when  I  was  too  small  to 
harm  them.  Now  a  vixen,  finding  me  too  near 
her  den  and  cubs,  would  squall  at  me  impatient- 
ly, like  a  little  yellow  dog  with  a  cat's  voice;  or 
again,  a  brooding  bird  that  objected  to  my  scrutiny 

[200] 


On  Keeping  Still 


would  first  turn  her  tail  to  me,  and  presently  come 
round  again,  and  finally  get  mad  and  flutter  about 
my  head,  scolding  loudly  to  chivvy  me  away. 
So  it  often  happened  that  one  had  nearer  or 
happier  or  more  illuminating  glimpses  of  wild  life 
in  that  small  hour  of  rest  than  would  be  possible 
in  a  month  of  roaming  the  woods  with  gun  or 
collecting-box. 

Once  as  I  was  eating  my  lunch  under  the  p.ines, 
meanwhile  watching  a  den  I  had  found  to  see 
what  might  come  out  of  it,  a  crow  sailed  in  on 
noiseless  wings  and  lit  so  near  me  that  I  hardly 
dared  wink  for  fear  he  would  notice  the  motion. 
My  first  thought  was  that  he  was  nest-robbing 
(a  crow  is  very  discreet  about  that  business), 
but  he  appeared  rather  to  be  listening,  cocking 
his  head  this  way  or  that ;  and  from  a  lazy  hawing 
in  the  distance  I  concluded  he  was  satisfying  him- 
self that  his  flock  was  occupied  elsewhere  and  that 
he  was  quite  alone.  Presently  he  hitched  along 
the  branch  on  which  he  stood  and  glided  off  to 
the  crotch  of  a  pine-tree,  where  he  began  to 
uncover  what  was  hidden  under  a  mat  of  brown 
needles.  The  first  thing  he  took  out  was  a  piece 
of  glass,  which  sparkled  with  rainbow  colors  in 
a  stray  glint  of  sunshine.  Then  came  a  bit  of 
quartz  with  more  sparkles,  a  shell,  a  silvery 
buckle,  and  some  other  glistening  objects  which 

[201] 


How  Animals  Talk 


I  could  not  make  out.  He  turned  his  treasures 
over  and  over,  all  the  while  croaking  to  himself 
in  a  pleased  kind  of  way;  then  he  put  them  all 
back,  covered  them  again  with  needles,  and  slipped 
away  without  a  sound.  Having  kept  tame  crows, 
I  knew  that  they  are  forever  stealing  and  hiding 
whatever  bright  objects  they  find  about  the  house; 
and  here  in  the  pine  woods  was  a  thing  to  indicate 
that  wild  crows,  perhaps  all  of  them,  have  the 
same  covetous  habit. 

Another  day,  a  heavenly  day  when  the  budding 
woods  were  vocal  and  life  stirred  joyously  in 
every  thicket,  I  took  a  jews'-harp  from  my  pocket 
and  began  to  twang  it  idly.  No,  there  was  noth- 
ing premeditated  in  the  act.  I  had  been  roving 
widely,  following  the  winds  or  the  bird-calls  till 
a  sunny  opening  invited  me  to  rest,  and  had  then 
fingered  the  music-maker  with  no  more  purpose 
than  the  poet's  boy,  who  "whistled  as  he  went 
for  want  of  thought."  The  rhythmic,  nasal 
twanging  was  a  sound  never  heard  in  that  place 
before  or  since,  I  think,  and  the  first  to  come  hur- 
riedly to  investigate  was  a  bright-colored  warbler, 
whose  name  I  did  not  know;  nor  did  I  care  to 
know  it,  feeling  sure  that  by  some  note  or  sign  he 
would  presently  suggest  a  name  for  himself,  which 
would  please  me  better  than  the  barbarous  jargon 
I  might  find  in  a  bird-book.  The  alert  little  fellow 

[202] 


On  Keeping  Still 


lit  on  a  branch  within  three  feet  of  my  face,  turning 
his  head  so  as  to  view  me  with  one  eye  or  the  other 
when  I  kept  quiet,  or  chirping  his  indignation 
when  I  twanged  the  jews'-harp.  Next  came  a  jay, 
officious  as  the  town  constable;  then  more  birds, 
half  concealing  their  curiosity  under  gentle  man- 
ners; and  a  squirrel  who  had  no  manners  at  all, 
scolding  everybody  and  scurrying  about  in  a 
fashion  which  seemed  dangerous  to  his  excited 
head. 

As  I  watched  this  little  assembly,  which  seemed 
to  be  asking,  " What's  up?  What's  up?"  the 
meaning  of  it  suddenly  dawned  on  me  like  a  sur- 
prising discovery.  When  I  entered  the  opening 
I  knew  simply  that  birds  or  beasts  would  draw 
near  if  they  found  me  quiet ;  before  I  left  it  I  had 
found  the  explanation:  that  all  the  wood  folk  are 
intensely  curious,  as  curious  as  so  many  human 
gossips,  but  without  any  of  their  malice;  that 
by  inner  compulsion  they  are  drawn  to  any  strange 
sight  or  sound,  as  a  crowd  collects  when  a  man  cuts 
a  caper  or  throws  a  fit  or  raises  a  whoop  or  looks 
up  into  -the  air,  or  does  anything  else  out  of  the 
ordinary.  When  you  appear  in  the  quiet  woods 
every  bird  or  beast  within  sight  or  hearing  is  agog 
to  know  about  you;  they  are  like  the  Nantucket- 
Islanders,  who  named  their  one  public  hack  the 
"Who's  Come?"  Because  you  are  a  stranger,  and 

[203] 


How  Animals  Talk 


what  you  do  is  none  of  their  business,  they  are  all 
the  more  interested  in  you  and  your  doings;  you 
come  to  them  with  all  the  charm  of  the  unknown, 
the  unexpected ;  and  they  will  gratify  their  curios- 
ity, fearlessly  and  most  pleasantly,  so  long  as  you 
know  how  to  stimulate  or  play  upon  it  and  to 
hold  still  while  enjoying  it. 

All  that  is  natural  enough,  as  natural  as  life; 
but  it  is  not  written  in  any  book  of  natural  history, 
and  it  came  to  me  that  day  as  a  wonderful  dis- 
covery. It  suggested  at  once  the  right  way  to 
study  birds  or  beasts,  as  living  creatures;  it  has 
since  led  to  many  a  fascinating  glimpse  of  the 
wood-folk  comedy,  and  to  a  lifelong  pleasure  which 
is  too  elusive  to  be  set  down  in  words.  At  the 
bottom  of  it,  I  suppose,  is  the  fact  that  in  every 
wild  or  natural  creature  is  something,  at  once 
mysterious  and  familiar,  which  appeals  power- 
fully to  your  interest  or  sympathy,  as  if  you  saw 
a  faint  shadow  of  your  other  self,  or  caught  a 
fleeting  memory  of  that  vanished  time  when  you 
lived  in  a  child's  world  of  wonder  and  delight. 

From  the  beginning,  therefore,  I  met  all  birds 
and  animals  in  a  child's  impersonal  way;  which, 
strangely  enough,  ascribes  personality  to  every 
living  thing,  yes,  and  honors  it.  These  inquisitive 
little  rangers  of  the  wood  or  the  berry-pasture, 
shy  and  exquisitely  alert,  were  all  individuals  like 

[204] 


On  Keeping  Still 


myself,  each  one  seeking  the  joy  of  life  in  his  own 
happy  way.  My  only  regret  was  that  I  was  too 
clumsy,  too  obtrusive,  too  ignorant  of  the  way  of 
the  wild,  and  so  frightened  many  a  timid  bird  or 
beast  that  I  would  gladly  have  known. 

All  this,  too,  is  perfectly  natural ;  the  instinctive 
attitude  of  a  child,  as  of  an  animal,  is  one  of 
curiosity  rather  than  of  fear  or  destruction.  If 
left  to  his  natural  instincts,  a  child  meets  every 
living  creature  with  a  mixture  of  shyness  or  timid- 
ity and  bright  interest;  he  becomes  an  enemy  of 
the  wild,  learning  to  frighten  and  harry  and  kill, 
not  from  nature  but  from  the  evil  example  of  his 
elders.  I  could  prove  that  beyond  a  peradvent- 
ure,  I  think,  if  this  were  the  place;  but  there  is 
no  need  of  any  man's  demonstration.  Go  your- 
self to  the  big  woods  at  twilight,  leaving  custom 
behind  you;  go  alone  and  unarmed;  hear  that 
rustle  of  leaves,  that  tread  of  soft  feet  which 
brings  you  to  an  instant  halt;  see  that  strange 
beast  which  glides  out  into  the  trail  and  turns  to 
look  at  you  with  luminous  eyes.  Then  quickly  ex- 
amine your  own  mental  state,  and  you  will  know 
the  truth  of  a  man's  natural  or  instinctive  attitude 
toward  the  mystery  of  life. 

Unfortunately  the  wild  birds  and  beasts  near 
our  home  have  learned  that  man  is  unnatural,  a 
creature  to  be  feared,  and  their  curiosity  has  given 

[205] 


How  Animals  Talk 


place  to  another  motive.  The  young  still  display 
their  natural  bent  freely;  but  the  old  have  heard 
too  many  of  our  guns,  have  been  too  often  dis- 
turbed by  our  meddlesome  dogs  or  worthless  cats, 
have  suffered  too  much  at  the  hands  of  outrageous 
egg-collectors  or  skin-collectors  to  be  any  longer 
drawn  to  us  when  we  go  afield.  As  you  go  farther 
away  from  civilization  it  becomes  easier  to  play 
on  the  animals'  native  curiosity;  in  the  far  North 
or  the  remote  jungle,  or  wherever  man  is  happily 
unknown,  they  still  come  fearlessly  to  investigate 
you,  or  to  stand  quiet,  like  the  ptarmigan,  watch- 
ing with  innocent  eyes  as  you  pass  them  by.  In 
the  intermediate  regions,  which  are  harried  by 
sportsmen  for  a  brief  period  in  the  autumn  and 
then  left  to  a  long  solitude,  the  animals  are  wild 
or  tame  according  to  season;  and  it  has  seemed  to 
me,  not  always  but  on  occasions,  that  in  some 
subtle  way  they  distinguish  between  man  and 
man,  taking  alarm  at  the  first  sniff  of  a  hunter, 
but  stopping  to  show  their  interest  in  a  harmless 
woods-rover. 

This  last  is  a  mere  theory,  to  be  sure,  and  to 
some  it  may  appear  a  fanciful  one;  but  it  rests,  be 
assured,  upon  repeated  experience.  Thus,  I  came 
once  at  evening  to  a  camp  of  hunters  who  were  in 
a  sorry  plight.  They  were  in  a  good  deer  country, 
and  had  counted  largely  on  venison  to  supply 

[206! 


On  Keeping  Still 


their  table;  but  for  more  than  a  week  they  had 
tasted  no  meat,  and  they  were  very  hungry.  The 
deer  were  wild  as  hawks,  they  assured  me.  They 
had  hunted  every  day;  but  because  of  the  game's 
wildness  and  the  dry  weather,  which  made  the 
leaves  rustle  loudly  underfoot,  it  had  proved  im- 
possible to  approach  near  enough  for  a  shot — all 
of  which  made  me  think  that,  if  you  want  to  see 
game,  you  should  leave  your  gun  at  home.  I  had 
met  about  a  dozen  deer  that  day;  most  of  them 
were  within  easy  range,  and  a  few  of  them  stood 
with  questioning  eyes  while  a  man  might  have 
made  ready  his  camera  and  taken  a  picture  of 
them. 

The  very  next  morning,  and  within  a  mile  of  the 
hunters'  camp,  I  witnessed  a  familiar  but  fasci- 
nating display  of  deer  nature.  At  sunrise  I  ap- 
proached a  bog,  bordering  a  stream  where  a  few 
good  trout  might  be  found,  and  on  the  edge  of  the 
opening  stood  a  doe  and  her  well-grown  fawn,  not 
twenty  yards  away.  The  fawn,  a  little  buck  with 
the  nubs  of  his  first  antlers  showing,  threw  up  his 
head  as  I  appeared,  and  in  the  same  instant  I 
dropped  to  the  ground  behind  a  mossy  log.  No 
whistle  or  sound  of  alarm  followed  the  action; 
so  I  scraped  a  mat  of  moss  from  the  log,  put  it  on 
for  a  bonnet,  and  cautiously  raised  my  head. 

The  old  doe  was  still  feeding;  the  buck  stood 
[207] 


How  Animals  Talk 


like  a  living  statue,  his  whole  attention  fastened 
on  the  spot  where  I  had  disappeared.  He  had 
seen  something,  he  knew  not  what,  and  was  wait- 
ing for  it  to  show  itself  again.  When  my  bonnet 
appeared  his  eyes  seemed  to  enlarge  and  flash  as 
he  caught  the  motion.  Without  changing  his  foot- 
ing, for  his  surprise  seemed  to  have  rooted  him 
in  the  ground,  he  began  to  sway  his  body  to  left 
or  right,  stretching  his  head  high  or  dropping  it 
low,  taking  a  dozen  graceful  attitudes  in  order  to 
view  the  queer  bit  of  moss  from  different  angles. 
Then  he  slowly  raised  a  fore  foot,  put  it  down  very 
gently,  raised  it  again,  stamped  it  down  hard. 
Getting  no  response  to  his  challenge,  he  sidled  over 
to  his  mother,  still  keeping  his  eyes  fastened  on  the 
log.  At  his  touch  or  call  she  lifted  her  head, 
pointing  her  nose  straight  at  me,  as  if  he  had 
somehow  told  her  where  to  give  heed. 

It  was  a  wonderful  sight,  the  multicolored  bog 
spread  like  a  rug  at  the  feet  of  the  glorious  October 
woods,  and  standing  on  the  crimson  fringe  of  it 
these  two  beautiful  creatures,  demanding  with 
flashing  eyes  who  the  intruder  might  be.  For  a 
full  minute,  while  I  held  motionless,  the  doe  kept 
her  eyes  steadily  on  the  log;  then," Nothing  there, 
little  buck;  don't  worry,"  she  said  in  her  own 
silent  way,  and  went  to  feeding  once  more. 

"But  there  is  something;  I  saw  it,"  insisted  the 
[208] 


On  Keeping  Still 


little  buck,  nudging  his  mother  by  swinging  his 
head  against  her  side.  That  was  the  first  and  only 
time,  in  that  quick  swing,  when  he  took  his  eyes 
from  what  attracted  them.  The  doe  looked  a 
second  time,  saw  nothing  uncommon,  and  had 
turned  to  feed  along  the  edge  of  the  opening  when 
the  little  buck  recalled  her  in  some  way.  "Can't 
you  see  it,  that  white  thing  like  a  face  under  the 
moss  ?"  he  was  saying.  "There !  it  moved  again !" 

The  mother,  whose  back  was  turned  to  me, 
twisted  her  head  around  as  if  to  humor  him,  and 
to  interest  her  I  swayed  the  moss  bonnet  to  and 
fro  like  a  pendulum.  At  that  she  whirled,  surprise 
written  large  on  her,  and  I  dropped  my  head, 
leaving  her  staring.  When  I  looked  again  both 
deer  were  coming  nearer,  the  mother  ahead,  the 
fawn  holding  back  as  if  to  say,  "Careful  now! 
It's  big,  and  it's  hiding  just  behind  that  log." 
So  they  drew  on  warily,  stopping  to  stamp  a  fore 
foot,  and  every  time  they  challenged  I  gave  the 
bonnet  an  answering  wag.  When  they  were  so 
near  that  I  knew  they  must  soon  distinguish  my 
eyes  from  the  moss,  I  sank  out  of  sight.  I  was 
listening  for  their  alarm-call  or  for  the  thud  of 
their  flying  feet  when  a  gray  muzzle  slid  over  the 
log,  and  I  laid  my  hand  fair  on  the  mother's  cheek 
before  she  bounded  away. 

Now  there  was  nothing  strange  or  new  in  all 
[209] 


How  Animals  Talk 


that;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  very  much  like  what 
I  had  observed  in  other  inquisitive  deer.  The 
only  surprising  part  of  the  comedy  was  that  the 
doe,  though  she  had  felt  the  touch  of  my  hand  and 
no  doubt  smelled  the  man  behind  it,  stopped  short 
after  a  few  jumps  and  turned  to  stare  at  the  log 
again.  That  she  was  still  curious,  still  unsatis- 
fied, was  plain  enough;  what  puzzles  me  to  know 
is,  whether  she  would  have  acted  in  the  same  way 
if  one  of  the  hungry  hunters  had  been  waiting  in 
my  shoes  for  the  chance  or  moment  to  kill  her. 


IX 


IT  is  easy,  much  easier  than  you  think,  to  get 
close  to  wild  birds  and  beasts;  for  after  you 
have  met  them  a  few  times  in  the  friendly,  im- 
personal way  I  have  tried  to  describe,  two  interest- 
ing traits  appear:  the  first,  that  they  do  not  see 
you  clearly  so  long  as  you  hold  still;  the  second, 
that  even  their  keen  noses  lose  track  of  you  after 
you  have  been  quiet  for  a  little  time. 

The  eye  is  a  weak  point  in  all  animals  I  have 
chanced  to  observe,  which  apparently  depend  less 
on  sight  than  on  any  other  sense — so  far  as  safety 
goes,  that  is.  In  gratifying  their  curiosity  they 
seem  to  be  all  eyes.  At  other  times  they  will 
catch  an  abrupt  or  unusual  motion  quickly  enough; 

[211] 


How  Animals  Talk 


but  they  are  strangely  blind  to  any  motionless 
object  however  large  or  small.  Repeatedly  when 
I  have  been  sitting  quiet,  without  concealment 
but  with  "neutral"  clothes  that  harmonize  with 
the  soft  woods  colors,  I  have  known  deer,  moose, 
caribou,  bear,  wolf,  fox,  lynx,  otter,  alert  beasts 
of  every  kind,  to  approach  within  a  few  yards, 
giving  no  heed  till  a  chirp  or  a  slight  motion  called 
their  attention.  Then  they  would  whirl  upon  me 
in  astonishment,  telling  me  by  their  attitude  that 
till  then  they  had  not  noticed  or  suspected  me. 
Almost  invariably  at  such  times  animals  of  the 
deer  family  would  come  a  step  nearer,  their  heads 
high,  their  eyes  asking  questions;  but  beasts  of 
prey  after  one  keen  look  would  commonly  drop 
their  heads,  as  if  I  were  of  no  consequence,  and 
slyly  circle  me  to  get  my  wind.  In  either  event 
success  or  a  better  view  of  the  animal  depended 
on  just  one  condition,  which  was  to  hold  absolutely 
still.  So  long  as  I  met  that  condition,  none  of  these 
wary  beasts  seemed  to  have  any  clear  notion  what 
they  were  looking  at. 

Occasionally,  indeed,  their  lack  of  discernment 
almost  passes  belief.  One  winter  day,  while  cross- 
ing a  frozen  lake  in  Ontario,  I  noticed  a  distant 
speck  moving  on  the  snow,  and  stopped  in  my 
tracks  to  watch  it.  The  speck  turned  my  way, 
drew  near  and  changed  into  an  otter,  who  came 

[212] 


At  Close  Range 


rollicking  along  in  his  merry  way,  taking  one  or 
two  quick  jumps  on  his  abbreviated  legs  and  a 
long  slide  on  his  ample  belly.  As  the  air  was  dry 
and  very  still  I  had  no  fear  of  his  nose,  which  is 
not  as  sensitive  as  many  others  (perhaps  because 
of  the  peculiar  valve  or  flap  which  closes  it  tight 
when  an  otter  swims  under  water) ;  but  his  eyes 
and  other  senses  are  extraordinarily  good,  and  it 
seemed  impossible  that  he  should  overlook  a  man 
standing  erect  on  the  snowy  ice,  as  conspicuous  as 
a  fly  in  the  milk.  So  I  watched  the  approach  with 
lively  interest,  wondering  how  Keeonekh  would 
act  in  comparison  with  other  members  of  his 
weasel  family  when  he  found  himself  near  me, 
whether  he  would  dart  away  like  a  fisher,  or 
ignore  me  like  a  mink,  or  show  his  teeth  at  me 
like  a  little  stoat. 

On  he  came,  confidently,  as  an  otter  travels, 
giving  no  heed  to  the  enemy  in  his  path,  till  he 
halted  with  a  paw'  resting  on  one  of  my  snow- 
shoes  and  began  to  wiggle  his  broad  muzzle,  as  if 
he  found  something  in  the  air  which  he  did  not 
like.  For  several  moments  he  hesitated,  sniffing 
here,  listening  there,  looking  sharply  about  the 
lake,  into  the  near-by  woods,  everywhere  except 
up  into  my  face,  and  then  went  on  as  he  had  been 
heading,  leaving  a  straight  trail  behind  him.  No 
man  can  tell  what  was  in  his  head,  and  a  very 
is  [213] 


How  Animals  Talk 


intelligent  head  it  is;  but  his  action  seemed  to 
say  that  he  did  not  see  me  when  he  passed  literally 
under  my  nose.  To  him  I  was  merely  a  stump, 
one  of  a  dozen  that  projected  here  or  there  above 
the  ice  near  the  shore. 

Such  an  incident  would  be  merely  freakish  if  it 
happened  once;  but  it  happens  again  and  again, 
becoming  almost  common  or  typical,  when  a  man 
stands  motionless  in  the  presence  of  other  birds 
or  beasts.  Twice  in  the  big  woods  has  the  Canada 
lynx,  a  dull  beast  in  comparison  with  the  otter, 
passed  me  with  an  unseeing  stare  in  his  wild  eyes. 
And  I  have  crouched  in  the  snow  on  a  treeless 
barren  while  a  band  of  caribou  filed  past,  so  near 
that  I  could  see  the  muscles  ripple  under  their 
sleek  skins  and  hear  the  click-click  of  their  hoofs  as 
they  walked.  The  greater  part  of  the  herd  did 
not  even  notice  me;  the  rest  threw  a  passing 
glance  in  my  direction,  one  halting  as  if  he  had  a 
moment's  doubt,  and  went  on  without  a  sign  of 
recognition. 

The  eyes  of  birds  are  keener,  as  a  rule ;  but  it  is 
still  a  question  with  me  how  much  or  how  little 
they  see  of  what  is  plain  as  a  frog  on  a  log  to 
human  vision.  An  owl  has  excellent  eyes,  which 
are  at  their  best  in  the  soft  twilight;  yet  once  as 
I  sat  quiet  in  the  dusk  a  horned-owl  swooped  and 
struck  at  a  motion  of  my  head,  not  seeing  the  rest 

[214] 


At  Close  Range 


of  me,  one  must  think,  since  he  is  quick  to  take 
alarm  when  a  man  appears.  Another  owl  showed 
even  less  discernment  in  that  he  overlooked  me, 
head  and  all,  at  a  yard's  distance  and  tried  to  get 
his  game  out  from  under  my  feet. 

A  little  dog  had  followed  me  that  day,  keeping 
out  of  sight  till  we  were  far  from  home,  when  he 
showed  himself  in  a  waggish  way,  as  if  he  knew 
I  would  not  have  the  heart  to  tie  him  up  in  that 
lonely  place,  as  he  deserved.  All  day  long  he  had 
a  vociferous  and  a  "bully"  time  making  a  nuisance 
of  himself,  stirring  up  a  hornets'  nest  in  every 
peaceful  spot,  chasing  deer  out  of  sight  with  a 
blithe  rowdydow,  swimming  out  to  the  raft  on 
which  I  was  fly-fishing,  jumping  in  to  get  tangled 
in  my  landing-net  when  I  reached  for  a  big  trout — 
in  twenty  ways  showing  that  his  business  was  to 
take  care  of  me,  though  he  was  no  dog  of  mine. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  as  I  rested  beside  the 
homeward  trail,  the  little  dog  rambled  off  by  him- 
self, still  looking  for  trouble,  like  all  his  breed. 
Presently  there  was  a  yelp,  a  scurry,  a  glimpse  of 
broad  wings  swooping,  and  back  came  the  trouble- 
seeker  like  a  streak,  his  eyes  saying,  "Look  at  this 
thing  I  brought  you !"  and  his  ears  flapping  like  a 
pair  of  wings  to  help  him  along.  Over  him  hov- 
ered a  big  barred-owl,  grim  as  fate,  striking,  miss- 
ing, mounting,  swooping  again,  brushing  me  with 

[215] 


How  Animals  Talk 


his  wings  as  he  whirled  around  my  head.  Between 
my  heels  and  the  log  on  which  I  was  sitting  my 
protector  wedged  himself  securely;  the  owl  with  a 
vicious  snapping  of  his  beak  sailed  up  into  an 
evergreen  and  made  himself  invisible.  In  a  mo- 
ment or  two  the  little  dog  came  out  and  was 
wagging  his  tail  mightily  over  the  adventure  when 
the  owl  slanted  down  on  noiseless  wings  and 
struck  a  double  set  of  claws  into  him.  Then  I 
interfered,  rising  to  my  feet;  and  then,  for  the 
first  time  I  think,  the  owl  saw  me  as  something 
other  than  a  stump  and  vanished  quickly  in  the 
spruce  woods. 

Hawks  likewise  have  marvelous  eyes  for  all 
things  that  move;  but  I  began  to  question  the 
quality  of  their  vision  one  day  when  I  was  watch- 
ing a  deer,  and  a  red-shouldered  hawk  lit  so  near 
me  that  I  reached  out  a  hand  and  caught  him. 

Another  afternoon  I  came  upon  a  goshawk, 
keenest  of  all  the  falcons,  that  had  just  killed  a 
grouse  in  the  tote-road  I  was  following.  He 
darted  away  as  I  came  round  a  bend ;  but  think- 
ing he  might  soon  return,  for  he  is  a  bold  and  a 
persistent  kind  of  pirate,  I  entered  the  woods  at  a 
swift  walk,  as  if  going  away.  Then  I  worked 
cautiously  back  to  the  road  through  a  thicket, 
and  waited  on  a  log  in  deep  shadow,  some  fifty 
yards  above  where  the  grouse  lay  undisturbed. 

[216] 


At  Close  Range 


Luckily  I  had  a  rifle,  an  accurate  little  twenty- 
two,  often  carried  as  medicine  for  "vermin,"  and 
I  intended  to  kill  the  goshawk  at  the  first  chance. 
He  is  the  viking  among  birds,  and  as  such  has  a 
romantic  interest ;  but  wherever  he  appears  he  is  a 
veritable  pest,  the  most  destructive  of  the  hungry 
hordes  that  come  down  from  the  North  to  play 
havoc  with  our  game. 

For  a  long  time  the  goshawk  hovered  about, 
sweeping  on  tireless  wings  high  above  the  trees; 
but  though  I  was  quiet  enough  to  deceive  any 
bird  or  beast,  he  held  warily  aloof.  Once  he  dis- 
appeared, remaining  so  long  away  that  I  was 
beginning  to  think  he  had  wearied  of  the  game  of 
patience,  when  I  heard  an  eery  call  and  saw  him 
wheeling  over  the  road  again.  His  absence  be- 
came clear  a  little  later  when  he  perched  on  a 
blasted  pine,  far  out  of  range,  where  he  remained 
watching  for  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  his  only 
motion  being  an  occasional  turning  of  the  head. 
That  he  was  hungry  and  bound  to  have  his  own 
was  plain  enough ;  the  puzzle  was  why  he  did  not 
come  and  get  it,  for  it  seemed  highly  improbable 
that  he  would  notice  a  motionless  figure  at  that 
distance.  I  think  now  that  he  was  sailing  high 
over  my  head  when  I  re-entered  the  trail;  that 
he  knew  where  I  was  all  the  time,  not  because  he 
saw  me  on  the  log,  but  because  he  did  not  see  me 

[217] 


How  Animals  Talk 


go  away.  Before  sunset  he  headed  off  toward  the 
mountain,  going  early  to  roost  with  all  his  kind. 

Dawn  found  me  back  on  the  old  road,  as  much 
to  test  the  matter  of  vision  as  to  put  an  end  to  the 
game-destroyer.  As  a  precaution  I  had  changed 
clothes,  and  now  shifted  position,  avoiding  the  log 
because  the  wary  bird  would  surely  take  a  look 
at  it  before  coming  down.  My  stand  was  a 
weathered  stump  beside  the  road,  against  which 
I  sat  on  a  carpet  of  moss,  without  concealment  of 
any  kind.  At  a  short  distance  lay  the  grouse,  a 
poor  crumpled  thing,  just  as  he  had  wilted  under 
the  hawk's  swoop. 

Thus  a  half-hour  or  more  passed  comfortably. 
A  gorgeous  cock-partridge  sauntered  into  the  open, 
saw  me  when  I  nodded  to  him,  and  went  slowly  off 
with  that  graceful,  balancing  motion  which  a 
grouse  affects  when  he  is  well  satisfied  with  him- 
self. Then,  as  the  sun  rose,  there  was  a  swift- 
moving  shadow,  a  rustle  of  pinions ;  the  goshawk 
swept  down  the  road  in  front  of  me  and  lit  beside 
his  game.  He  was  a  handsome  bandit,  in  full 
adult  plumage;  his  gray  breast  was  penciled  in 
shadowy  lines,  while  his  back  was  a  foggy  blue,  as 
if  in  his  northern  home  he  had  caught  the  sheen  of 
the  heavens  above  and  of  rippling  waters  beneath 
his  flight.  His  folded  wings  stood  out  squarely 
from  his  shoulders  with  an  impression  of  power, 

[2181 


At  Close  Range 


like  an  eagle's.  There  was  something  noble  in 
his  poise,  in  his  challenging  eye,  in  the  forward 
thrust  of  his  fierce  head ;  but  the  spell  was  broken 
at  the  first  step.  He  moved  awkwardly,  unwill- 
ingly it  seemed;  his  great  curving  talons  inter- 
fered with  his  footing  when  he  touched  the  earth. 

This  time,  instead  of  a  rifle,  there  was  a  trim 
shotgun  across  my  knees.  The  hawk  was  mine 
whether  he  stood  quiet  or  leaped  into  swift  flight, 
and  feeling  sure  of  him  now  I  watched  awhile, 
wondering  whether  he  would  break  up  his  game 
with  his  claws,  as  some  owls  do,  or  tear  it  to 
pieces  with  his  hooked  beak.  For  a  moment  he 
did  neither,  but  stood  splendidly  alert  over  his 
kill.  Once  he  turned  his  head  completely  around 
over  either  shoulder,  sweeping  his  piercing  glance 
over  me,  but  seeing  nothing  unusual.  Then  he 
seized  his  game  in  one  foot  and  struck  his  beak 
into  the  breast,  making  the  feathers  fly  as  he  laid 
the  delicate  flesh  open.  When  I  found  myself 
weakening,  growing  sentimental  at  the  thought 
that  it  was  his  last  meal,  his  last  taste  of  freedom 
and  the  wild,  I  remembered  the  grouse  and  got 
quietly  on  my  feet.  Though  busy  with  his  feast, 
he  caught  the  first  shadow  of  a  motion ;  I  can  still 
see  the  gleam  in  his  wild  eyes  as  he  sprang  aloft. 

I  thought  him  beyond  all  harm  as  he  lay  on  his 
back,  one  outstretched  wing  among  the  feathers 

[219] 


How  Animals  Talk 


of  his  victim;  but  he  struck  like  a  flash  when  I 
reached  down  for  him  carelessly.  "Take  that! 
and  that !  and  remember  me !"  he  said,  driving  his 
weapons  up  with  astonishing  force,  a  force  that 
kills  or  paralyzes  his  game  at  the  first  grip.  Four 
of  his  needle-pointed  talons  went  to  the  bone,  and 
the  others  were  well  buried  in  the  flesh  of  my  arm. 
The  old  viking  had  been  some  time  with  his 
ancestors  before  I  pried  him  loose. 

As  for  the  sense  of  smell,  on  which  most  animals 
depend  for  accurate  information,  I  have  tried 
numerous  experiments  with  deer,  moose,  bear  and 
other  creatures  to  learn  how  far  they  can  wind  a 
man,  and  how  their  powers  compare  one  with 
another.  There  is  no  definite  answer  to  the  prob- 
lem, so  baffling  are  the  conditions  of  observing 
these  shy  beasts;  but  you  are  in  for  some  sur- 
prises, at  least,  when  you  attempt  to  solve  it  in 
the  open.  You  will  learn,  for  example,  that  when 
a  gale  is  blowing  the  animals  are  more  at  sea 
than  in  a  dead  calm;  or  that  in  a  gusty  wind 
you  can  approach  them  about  as  easily  from  one 
side  as  from  another.  Such  a  wind  rolls  and 
eddies  violently,  rebounding  from  every  hill  or 
point  or  shore  in  such  erratic  fashion  that  the 
animals  have  no  means  of  locating  a  danger  when 
they  catch  a  fleeting  sniff  of  it.  It  is  for  this 
reason,  undoubtedly,  that  all  game  is  uncommonly 

[220] 


At  Close  Range 


wild  on  a  windy  day:  the  constant  motion  of 
leaves  or  tossing  boughs  breeds  confusion  in  their 
eyes,  and  the  woodsy  smells  are  so  broken  by  cross- 
currents that  they  cannot  be  traced  to  their  source. 
So  it  has  happened  more  than  once  on  a  gusty  day 
that  a  deer,  catching  my  scent  on  the  rebound,  has 
whirled  and  rushed  straight  at  me,  producing  the 
momentary  illusion  that  he  was  charging. 

With  a  steady  but  not  strong  wind  blowing  in 
their  direction,  I  have  seen  deer  become  alarmed 
while  I  was  yet  a  quarter-mile  away;  this  on  a 
lake,  where  there  was  nothing  to  interfere  with 
the  breeze  or  the  scent.  On  the  burnt  lands  or 
the  open  barrens  I  have  seen  bear  and  caribou 
throw  up  their  heads  and  break  away  while  I  was 
even  farther  removed.  In  a  light  breeze  the  dis- 
tance is  much  shorter,  varying  from  fifty  to  two 
hundred  yards,  according  to  the  amount  of  moist- 
ure in  the  air.  On  days  that  are  still  or  very  dry, 
or  when  the  air  is  filled  with  smoke  from  a  forest 
fire  (the  latter  soon  inflames  all  sensitive  nostrils), 
the  animals  are  at  sea  again,  and  depend  less  on 
their  noses  than  on  their  eyes  or  ears. 

Another  surprising  thing  is,  that  the  animal's 
ability  to  detect  you  through  his  sense  of  smell 
is  largely  governed  by  your  own  activity  or  bod- 
ily condition.  Thus,  when  a  man  is  perspiring 
freely  or  moving  quickly,  his  scent  is  stronger  and 

[221] 


How  Animals  Talk 


travels  much  wider  than  when  he  is  sauntering 
about.  But  if  a  man  sits  absolutely  quiet,  a  clean 
man  especially,  no  animal  can  detect  him  beyond  a 
few  feet,  I  think,  for  the  reason  that  a  resting  man 
is  like  a  resting  bird  or  beast  in  that  he  gives  off 
very  little  body  scent,  which  remains  on  the 
ground  close  about  him  instead  of  floating  off  on 
the  air  currents.  Even  when  the  trees  are  tossing 
in  a  gale  there  is  little  stir  on  the  ground,  not  in 
the  woods  at  least,  and  the  closer  you  hold  to 
Mother  Earth  the  less  likelihood  is  there  of  any 
beast  smelling  you. 

All  ground-nesting  birds  depend  for  their  lives 
on  this  curious  provision  of  nature.  Were  it  not 
for  the  fact  that  practically  no  scent  escapes 
while  they  are  brooding  their  eggs,  very  few  of 
them  would  live  to  bring  forth  a  family  in  a  wood 
nightly  traversed  by  such  keen-nosed  enemies  as 
the  fox  and  the  weasel.  My  old  setter  would 
wind  a  running  grouse  or  quail  at  an  incredible 
distance,  and  would  follow  him  by  picking  his 
scent  from  the  air;  but  I  have  taken  that  same 
dog  on  a  leash  near  the  same  birds  when  they 
were  brooding  their  eggs,  and  he  could  not  or 
would  not  detect  them  unless  he  were  brought 
within  a  few  feet,  or  (a  rare  occurrence)  unless  a 
creeping  ground-breeze  blew  directly  from  the 
nest  into  his  face. 

[222] 


At  Close  Range 


The  same  provision  guards  animals,  such  as 
deer  and  caribou,  which  build  no  dens  but  leave 
their  helpless  young  on  the  ground.  Two  or  three 
times,  after  finding  a  fawn  in  the  woods,  I  have 
tested  his  concealment  by  means  of  my  young 
dog's  nose;  and  I  may  add  that  Rab  will  point 
a  deer  as  stanchly  as  he  points  a  grouse  or  wood- 
cock, for  he  is  still  in  the  happy,  irresponsible 
stage  when  everything  that  lives  in  the  woods  is 
game  to  him.  So  long  as  the  fawn  remains  mo- 
tionless where  his  mother  hid  him,  the  dog  must 
be  almost  on  top  of  him  before  pointing  or  showing 
any  sign  of  game.  But  if  the  little  fellow  runs 
or  even  rises  to  his  feet  at  our  approach  (fawns 
are  apt  to  do  this  as  they  grow  older),  the  dog 
seems  to  catch  the  scent  after  the  first  motion; 
he  begins  to  cat-foot,  his  nose  up  as  in  following 
an  air  trail,  and  steadies  to  a  point  while  he  is 
still  many  yards  away  from  where  the  fawn  was 
hiding. 

The  nose  of  a  wolf  is  keener  than  that  of  any 
dog  I  ever  knew;  yet  I  once  trailed  a  pack  of 
wolves  that  passed  within  sixteen  measured  feet 
of  where  two  deer  were  sleeping  in  a  hole  in  the 
snow.  The  wolves  were  hunting,  too,  for  they 
killed  and  partially  ate  a  buck  a  little  farther  on; 
but  the  trail  said  that  they  had  passed  close  to 
these  sleeping  deer  without  detecting  them. 

[223] 


How  Animals  Talk 


As  for  the  man-scent,  you  may  judge  of  that 
by  the  violent  start  or  the  headlong  rush  when  an 
animal  catches  the  first  alarming  whiff  of  it.  If  he 
passes  quietly  on  his  way,  therefore,  you  may  be 
reasonably  sure  he  has  not  smelled  you.  To  the 
latter  conclusion  I  have  been  forced  many  times 
when  I  have  been  watching  in  the  woods,  sitting 
quiet  for  hours  at  a  stretch,  and  a  deer  or  bear  or 
fox,  or  some  other  beast  with  nose  as  keen  as  a 
brier,  has  passed  at  a  dozen  yards'  distance  with- 
out a  sign  to  indicate  that  he  was  aware  of  me. 
Some  of  these  animals  came  much  nearer;  so  near, 
in  fact,  that  I  was  scary  of  a  closer  approach  until 
I  had  called  their  attention  to  what  lay  ahead  of 
them. 

So  long  as  you  are  seen  or  suspected,  you  need 
have  little  fear  of  any  wild  beast  (only  the  tame 
or  half-tame  are  dangerous),  but  a  brute  that 
stumbles  upon  you  in  an  unexpected  place  or  mo- 
ment is  always  a  problem.  Nine  times  out  of  ten 
he  will  fall  all  over  himself  in  his  haste  to  get  away; 
but  the  tenth  time  he  may  fall  upon  you  and  give 
you  a  mauling.  Moose,  for  example,  are  apt  to 
strike  a  terrible  blow  with  their  fore  feet,  or  to  up- 
set a  canoe  when  the  jack-light  approaches  them; 
not  to  attack,  I  think,  at  least  not  consciously, 
but  in  blind  panic  or  to  ward  off  a  fancied  enemy. 
So  when  I  have  watched  from  the  shore  of  a  lake 

[224] 


At  Close  Range 


and  a  moose  came  swinging  along  without  noticing 
me,  I  have  risen  to  my  feet  or  thrown  my  hat  at 
the  big  brute  when  he  was  as  near  as  I  cared  to 
have  him.  And  more  than  once,  after  a  tremen- 
dous start  of  surprise,  he  has  come  nearer  with  his 
hackles  up  as  soon  as  he  got  over  the  first  effect  of 
my  demonstration.  Yet  when  I  am  roaming  the 
woods  that  same  brute  will  catch  my  scent  at 
from  two  to  five  hundred  yards,  and  rush  away 
before  I  can  get  even  a  glimpse  of  him. 

That  the  same  surprising  sense-limitation  is  upon 
deer  and  other  game  animals  may  be  inferred  from 
the  following  experience,  which  is  typical  of  many 
others.  I  was  perched  among  some  cedar  roots 
on  the  shore  of  a  pond,  one  September  day,  watch- 
ing a  buck  with  the  largest  antlers  I  have  ever  seen 
on  one  of  his  kind.  I  had  been  some  time  quiet 
when  he  glided  out  to  feed  in  a  little  bay,  on  my 
right;  and  my  heart  was  with  him  in  the  wish 
that  he  might  keep  his  noble  crown  through  the 
hunting  season,  for  his  own  pleasure  and  the  adorn- 
ment of  the  woods  and  the  confusion  of  all  head- 
hunters.  There  was  no  breeze;  but  a  moistened 
finger  told  of  a  faint  drift  of  air  from  the  lake  to 
the  woods. 

As  I  watched  the  buck,  there  came  to  my  cars  a 
crunching  of  gravel  from  the  opposite  direction, 
and  two  deer  appeared  on  the  point  at  my  left, 

[225] 


How  Animals  Talk 


heading  briskly  down  into  the  bay.  They  passed 
between  my  outstretched  feet  and  the  water's 
edge,  where  the  strip  of  shore  was  perhaps  three 
yards  wide;  then  they  turned  in  my  direction, 
seeing  or  smelling  nothing,  went  slowly  up  the 
bank  and  halted  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  to  the 
right  and  a  little  behind  me,  so  close  that  I  dared 
not  move  even  my  eyes  to  follow  them.  I  meas- 
ured the  djstance  afterward,  and  found  that  from 
their  hoof-marks  to  the  cedar  root  against  which 
I  rested  was  less  than  eight  feet.  Imperceptibly 
I  turned  for  another  look,  and  saw  both  deer  at 
attention,  their  heads  luckily  pointed  away  from 
me.  They  were  regarding  the  big  buck  intently, 
as  if  to  question  him.  They  showed  no  alarm  as 
yet;  but  they  were  plainly  uneasy,  searching  the 
forest  on  all  sides  and  at  times  turning  to  look 
over  my  head  upon  the  breathless  lake.  Every 
nervous  action  said  that  they  found  something 
wrong  in  the  air,  some  hint  or  taint  or  warning 
which  they  could  not  define.  So  they  moved 
alertly  into  the  woods,  halting,  listening,  testing 
the -air,  using  all  their  senses  to  locate  a  danger 
which  they  had  passed  and  left  behind  them. 

From  such  experiences  one  might  reasonably 
conclude  that,  like  the  brooding  grouse  or  the 
hidden  fawn,  a  motionless  man  gives  off  so  little 
scent  that  the  keenest  nose  is  at  fault  until  it 

[226] 


At  Close  Range 


comes  almost  within  touching  distance.  If  any 
further  proof  is  needed,  you  may  find  it  when  you 
sleep  in  the  open,  and  shy  creatures  draw  near 
without  any  fear  of  you.  By  daylight  deer,  bear 
and  moose  are  extremely  timid ;  they  rarely  come 
within  eyeshot  of  your  camp,  and  they  vanish 
at  the  first  sniff  which  tells  them  that  you  have 
invaded  their  feeding-grounds,.  But  when  you  are 
well  asleep  the  same  animals  will  pass  boldly 
through  your  camp-yard;  or  they  will  awaken 
you,  as  they  have  many  times  awakened  me,  when 
you  are  tenting  or  sleeping  under  the  stars  by 
some  outlying  pond.  If  you  lie  quiet,  content 
to  listen,  the  invading  animal  will  move  freely 
here  or  there  without  concern;  but  no  sooner  do 
you  begin  to  stir,  however  quietly,  than  he  catches 
the  warning  scent,  and  a  thudding  of  earth  or  a 
smashing  of  brush  tells  the  rest  of  the  story. 

I  recall  one  night,  cloudy  and  very  still,  when  I 
slept  under  my  canoe  on  a  strip  of  sand  beside  a 
wilderness  lake.  The  movement  of  an  animal 
near  at  hand  awoke  me.  In  the  black  darkness  I 
could  see  nothing;  but  somehow  I  knew  he  was 
big,  and  aside  from  the  crepitation  of  the  sand, 
which  I  plainly  heard,  I  seemed  to  feel  the  brute 
near  me.  For  a  moment  there  was  a  pause,  a 
dead  silence;  then  came  a  thump,  a  rattlety-bang; 
the  canoe  shook  as  something  hit  the  lower  end  of 

[227] 


How  Animals  Talk 


it,  and  the  creature  moved  away.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  without  eyes,  so  I  snuggled  the 
blanket  closer  and  went  to  sleep  again.  In  the 
morning  there  were  the  tracks  of  a  moose,  a  bull 
as  I  judged  from  the  shape  of  his  feet,  to  say  that 
he  had  come  down  the  shore  at  a  fast  walk,  halted, 
stepped  over  the  stern  of  the  canoe,  and  went  on 
without  hastening  his  pace. 

That  was  odd  enough ;  but  more  surprising  were 
some  tracks  on  the  other  side,  between  the  bow  of 
the  canoe  and  the  woods.  Very  faint  and  dainty 
tracks  they  were,  as  if  a  soft  pad  had  touched  the 
sand  here  and  there  in  an  uneven  line;  but  they 
told  of  a  fox  who  had  come  trotting  along  under 
the  bank,  and  who  had  passed  in  the  night  without 
awakening  me.  That  neither  he  nor  the  moose 
had  smelled  the  sleeping  man,  or  nothing  alarming 
in  him  at  least,  is  about  as  near  to  certainty  as 
you  will  come  in  interpreting  animal  action. 

There  is  another  and  not  wholly  unreasonable 
hypothesis  which  may  help  to  explain  such  phe- 
nomena; namely,  that  it  is  not  the  scent  of  man 
but  of  excitement,  anger,  blood-lust  or  some  other 
abnormal  quality  which  alarms  a  wild  animal. 
It  sounds  queer,  I  know,  to  say  that  anger  can  be 
smelled ;  but  it  is  more  than  probable  that  anger  or 
fierce  excitement  of  any  kind  distils  in  the  body 

[228] 


At  Close  Range 


a  kind  of  poison  which  is  physical  and  sensible. 
Such  excitement  certainly  weakens  a  man,  clogging 
his  system  with  the  ashes  of  its  hot  fires;  and 
there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not  smell  to  earth 
as  well  as  to  high  heaven. 

You  have  but  to  open  your  eyes  and  expand  your 
nostrils  for  some  evidence  of  this  matter.  Bees 
when  angered  give  off  a  pungent  odor,  which  is  so 
different  from  the  ordinary  smell  of  the  hive  that 
even  your  dull  nose  may  detect  the  change  of 
temper.  The  same  is  true  of  even  cold-blooded 
reptiles.  When  you  find  a  rattler  or  a  black- 
snake  squirming  in  the  sun,  you  can  smell  him 
faintly  at  a  few  yards'  distance.  Now  stir  him  up 
with  a  pole,  or  pin  him  to  the  earth  by  pressing  a 
forked  stick  with  short  prongs  over  his  neck.  As 
the  snake  becomes  enraged  he  pours  off  a  rank 
odor,  very  different  from  the  musky  smell  that 
first  attracted  your  notice,  and  it  travels  much 
wider,  and  clings  to  your  clothes  for  an  hour  after- 
ward. It  is  not  only  possible  but  very  likely, 
therefore,  that  strong  emotions  affect  the  bodies 
of  all  creatures  in  a  way  perceptible  to  senses 
other  than  sight.  If  so,  one  man  who  is  peaceable 
and  another  who  is  angry  or  highly  excited  may 
give  off  such  different  odors  that  a  brute  with 
sensitive  nostrils  may  be  merely  curious  about  the 
one  and  properly  afraid  of  the  other. 

16  [  229  1 


How  Animals  Talk 


That  wild  animals  instinctively  fear  the  scent 
of  humanity,  as  such,  is  probably  not  true.  The 
notion  arises,  I  think,  from  judging  the  natural 
animal  by  those  we  have  made  unnatural  by  abuse 
or  persecution.  Whenever  man  penetrates  a  wild 
region  for  the  first  time  he  finds,  as  a  rule,  that  the 
animals  have  little  fear  of  him,  the  tameness  of 
wild  game  having  been  noted  with  surprise  by 
almost  every  explorer.  It  has  been  noted  also, 
but  without  surprise,  by  saints  and  ascetics  who 
"for  the  greater  glory  of  God"  have  adopted  a  life 
of  solitude  and  meditation,  and  who  have  often 
found  the  birds  or  beasts  about  their  hermitage  to 
be  quite  fearless  of  them,  and  receptive  of  their 
kindness.  Not  till  the  abundant  flocks  and  herds 
of  a  new  region  have  been  harried  and  decimated 
by  senseless  slaughter  do  the  survivors  begin  to 
be  fearful  and  unapproachable,  as  we  unfortu- 
nately know  them.  Yet  even  now,  no  sooner  do 
we  drop  our  persecution  and  assume  a  rational  or 
humane  attitude  than  the  wild  ducks  come  to  the 
boat  landing  of  a  winter  hotel,  deer  feed  at  our 
haystacks,  and  bears  come  in  broad  daylight  to 
comfort  themselves  at  our  garbage-cans.  Such 
things  could  hardly  be  if  the  fear  of  man  were 
an  age-old  or  instinctive  inheritance. 

Nearer  home,  on  any  farm  bordering  the  wilder- 
ness, you  may  see  wild  deer  feeding  quite  tamely 

[230] 


At  Close  Range 


about  the  edges  of  the  cleared  fields  all  summer.  I 
recall  one  such  farm  in  Maine,  where  the  owner 
had  fifteen  acres  of  green  oats  waving  over  virgin 
soil — a  glorious  crop  for  me,  but  for  him  an  occasion 
of  lamentation.  You  could  go  through  that  field 
at  any  hour  before  six  in  the  morning  or  after  six 
at  night  and  find  a  dozen  deer  with  a  moose  or 
two  making  themselves  at  home.  The  owner's 
cattle  were  kept  out  by  a  rail  fence;  but  the 
moose  simply  leaned  against  the  fence  and  went 
through,  while  the  nimble  deer  sailed  over  the  ob- 
struction like  grasshoppers.  On  all  such  farms  the 
deer  have  the  scent  of  man  almost  constantly  in 
their  nostrils,  and  they  are  simply  watchful,  run- 
ning when  you  approach  too  near,  but  turning 
after  a  short  flight  to  have  a  look  at  you.  At 
times  you  may  see  them  feeding  when  the  scent  of 
laborers  or  fishermen  blows  fairly  over  them.  But 
when  October  comes,  and  the  law  is  "off,"  and 
wild-eyed  hunters  appear  with  guns  in  their  hands 
and  death  in  their  thoughts,  then  the  same  deer 
quickly  become  as  other  and  wilder  creatures, 
rushing  off  in  alarm  at  the  first  sniff  of  an  enemy. 
The  fact  and  the  changed  action  are  evident 
enough ;  the  only  interesting  question  is,  To  what 
extent  does  the  smell  of  man  change  when  he 
changes  his  peaceable  ways  ? 

Two  or  three  times  I  have  had  opportunity  to 
[231] 


How  Animals  Talk 


test  the  effect  of  the  human  scent  in  another  way, 
the  first  time  being  when  I  had  the  good  luck  to  see 
a  natural  child  and  a  natural  animal  together. 
The  child,  a  baby  girl  just  beginning  to  toddle,  was 
making  a  journey  by  means  of  a  comfortable  Ind- 
ian paukee  on  my  back,  and  I  had  left  her  in  an 
opening  beside  a  portage  trail  while  I  went  back 
to  my  canoe  for  a  thing  I  had  forgotten.  While 
I  was  gone,  three  deer  sauntered  into  the  opening. 
They  saw  the  baby,  and  were  instantly  as  curious 
about  her  as  so  many  gossips,  a  little  spotted  fawn 
especially.  The  baby  saw  them,  and  began  creep- 
ing eagerly  forward,  calling  or  "crowing"  as  she 
went.  The  deer  saw  and  heard  and  smelled  her 
every  moment;  yet  they  walked  around  her  with 
springy  steps,  now  on  this  side,  now  on  that,  show- 
ing a  world  of  curiosity  in  their  bright  eyes,  but 
never  a  sign  of  fear. 

From  a  distance  I  watched  the  lovely  scene, 
kindling  at  the  beauty  of  it,  or  feeling  a  bit  anxious 
when  I  saw  the  sharp  feet  of  the  old  doe  a  little  too 
near  the  sunny  head  or  the  outstretched  hands. 
Then  an  eddy  of  wind  from  the  mountain  got  be- 
hind me  and  whirled  over  the  deer.  They  caught 
the  scent  and  were  away  with  a  wild  alarm-call, 
their  white  flags  flying,  and  the  baby  waving  by-by 
as  they  vanished  in  the  woods. 

Quite  naturally,  therefore,  when  a  sensitive 
[232] 


At  Close  Range 


animal  runs  away  from  me,  I  find  myself  thinking 
that  perhaps  it  is  not  the  smell  of  humanity  but 
of  some  evil  trait  or  quality  which  frightens  him. 
I  first  laid  down  this  hypothesis  after  meeting  a 
strange,  childlike  man,  who  had  a  passion  for  roam- 
ing by  himself  in  the  fields  or  woods.  White  men, 
after  a  puzzling  acquaintance,  would  tap  their 
heads  or  call  him  crazy;  an  Indian  would  look 
once  in  his  eyes  and  say,  very  softly,  "The  Great 
Spirit  has  touched  him."  He  was  all  gentleness, 
without  a  thought  or  possibility  of  harm  in  his 
nature.  He  was  also  without  fear,  and  perhaps 
for  this  reason  he  inspired  no  fear  in  others.  When 
he  appeared  in  the  woods,  singing  to  himself,  the 
animals  would  watch  him  for  a  moment,  and  then 
go  their  ways  quietly,  as  if  they  understood  him. 
What  would  happen  if  a  race  of  such  men  lived 
near  the  wood  folk  must  be  left  to  the  imagination. 


X 


TO  reach  my  pond  you  must  leave  your  canoe 
on  the  shore  of  Sungeegamook,  the  home 
lake,  and  go  eastward  through  the  big  woods. 
Yonder  is  the  landing,  that  bank  of  green  topped 
by  "everlasting"  and  blue  asters,  with  a  cleft  like 
an  arched  doorway  in  the  forest  behind  it.  A 
rugged  jack-pine  leans  out  over  a  bit  of  shingle, 
as  if  to  indicate  a  good  place  to  beach  your  canoe, 
and  there  is  something  curiously  alive,  almost 
sentient,  in  its  attitude.  The  old  tree  seems  to 
watch  your  approach;  through  its  leaves  runs  a 
low  murmur  of  welcome  as  you  step  ashore. 

Entering  the  woods  (and  because  you  are  alone, 
and   therefore   natural,   something   in   their  dim 

[237] 


How  Animals  Talk 


aisles,  their  mysterious  depths,  their  breathing 
silence,  makes  you  go  gently)  you  find  yourself 
in  an  old  logging-road,  once  a  garish  symbol  of 
man's  destructiveness,  but  growing  yearly  more 
subdued,  more  beautiful,  since  Nature  began  her 
work  of  healing.  The  earth  beneath  your  feet, 
the  restful  earth  which  the  lumbermen  left  torn 
by  iron  tools  or  rent  by  dynamite,  has  again  put 
on  her  soft-colored  garments.  Feathery  beds  of 
fern  push  boldly  into  the  road  from  shadowy 
places ;  wild  grasses  fill  all  its  sunny  openings  with 
their  bloom  and  fragrance;  and  winding  down 
through  shade  or  sunshine  comes  a  trail  made  by 
the  feet  of  deer  and  moose.  Already  these  timid 
animals  have  adopted  the  forgotten  road  as  a 
runway;  you  may  meet  them  here  when  you  re- 
turn in  the  evening  twilight. 

Everywhere  beside  the  trail  are  old  marks  of  the 
destroyer.  Noble  maples  or  cedars  that  were 
centuries  growing  have  been  slashed  down,  dis- 
membered, thrust  aside  to  decay,  and  all  because 
they  stood  in  the  way  of  a  lumber-boss  who 
thought  only  of  getting  his  cut  of  spruce  down  to 
the  lake.  To  look  upon  such  trees,  dead  and 
shorn  of  their  beauty,  is  to  feel  pity  or  indignation; 
but  Nature  does  not  share  your  feeling,  being  too 
abundant  of  life  and  resource  to  waste  any  moment 
in  regret.  Already  she  is  upbuilding  what  man 

[238] 


The  Trail 


has  torn  down.  Glaring  ax-wounds  have  all  dis- 
appeared under  bandages  of  living  moss;  every 
fallen  log  has  hidden  its  loss  under  a  mantle  of 
lichen,  soft  and  gray,  which  speaks  not  of  death 
but  of  life  renewed. 

Where  the  sun  touches  these  prostrate  giants  a 
blush  of  delicate  color  spreads  over  them.  See,  it 
deepens  as  you  look  upon  it  curiously,  and  you 
examine  it  to  find  a  multitude  of  "fairy-cups" 
on  slender  stems,  each  lifting  its  scarlet  chalice  to 
the  light.  Very  soft  and  inviting  seats  they  offer, 
yielding  to  your  weight,  sending  up  an  odor  as  of 
crushed  herbs;  but  do  not  accept  the  invitation. 
If  you  must  halt  to  rest  or  to  enjoy  the  stillness, 
sit  not  down  on  one  of  these  mossy  logs,  but  before 
it  at  a  little  distance,  and  let  its  blended  colors  be 
to  your  eye  what  the  wind  in  the  pine  is  to  your 
ear,  or  the  smell  of  hemlock  to  your  nostrils. 
Then  will  all  your  senses  delight  in  harmony,  their 
natural  birthright,  while  you  rest  by  the  way. 

Where  the  old  road  winds  about  the  end  of  a 
ridge,  avoiding  every  steep  pitch,  young  balsams 
are  crowding  thickly  into  it ;  where  it  turns  down- 
ward to  the  lowlands,  quick-growing  alders  claim 
it  as  their  own;  and  as  you  leave  the  lake  far 
behind  it  begins  to  divide  interminably,  each 
branch  breaking  into  smaller  branches,  like  the 
twigs  of  a  tree  as  you  trace  them  outward.  The 

[239] 


How  Animals  Talk 


twig  ends  with  a  bud  in  clear  space;  but  the 
farther  or  landward  end  of  a  logging-road  dwindles 
to  a  deer-path,  the  path  to  a  rabbit-run,  and  the 
run  vanishes  in  some  gloomy  cedar  swamp  or 
trackless  thicket  where  is  no  outlook  on  any  side. 

It  is  in  such  places,  while  you  puzzle  over  another 
man's  road  instead  of  keeping  your  own  trail 
straight,  that  you  are  most  apt  to  get  lost.  Com- 
ing back  you  need  have  no  fear  of  going  astray, 
since  all  these  trails  lead  to  the  main  road,  and 
thence  downhill  to  the  lake;  but  going  forward  it 
is  well  to  steer  clear  of  all  branch  roads,  which 
lead  nowhere  and  confuse  the  sense  of  direction. 

Leaving  the  road  behind,  therefore,  and  heading 
still  eastward,  you  cross  a  ridge  where  the  hard- 
woods stand,  as  their  ancestors  stood,  untouched 
by  the  tools  of  men.  Immense  trunks  of  beech 
or  sugar-maple  or  yellow  birch  tower  upward  wide 
apart,  the  moss  of  centuries  upon  them ;  far  over- 
head is  a  delicate  tracery  of  leaves,  a  dance  of 
light  against  the  blue,  and  over  all  is  the  blessed 
silence. 

Beyond  the  ridge  the  ground  slopes  downward 
to  a  uniform  level.  Soon  the  moss  grows  deeper 
underfoot,  with  a  coolness  that  speaks  of  perpetual 
moisture.  The  forest  becomes  dense,  almost  be- 
wildering; here  a  "black  growth"  of  spruce  or 
fir,  there  a  tangle  of  moosewood,  yonder  a  swale 

[240] 


The  Trail 


where  impenetrable  alder-thickets  make  it  im- 
possible to  hold  a  straight  course.  Because  all 
this  growth  is  useless  to  the  lumberman,  there  is 
no  cutting  to  be  seen;  but  because  I  have  passed 
this  way  before,  instinctively  following  the  same 
course  like  an  animal,  a  faint  winding  trail  begins 
to  appear,  with  a  bent  twig  or  a  blazed  tree  at 
every  turn  to  give  direction. 

As  you  move  forward  more  confidently,  learning 
the  woodsman's  way  of  looking  far  ahead  to  pick 
up  the  guiding  signs  before  you  come  to  them,  the 
dim  forest  suddenly  brightens;  a  wave  of  light 
runs  in,  saying  as  it  passes  overhead  that  you  are 
near  an  opening.  As  if  to  confirm  the  message, 
the  trail  runs  into  a  well-worn  deer-path,  which 
looks  as  if  the  animals  that  used  it  knew  well 
where  they  were  going.  Clumps  of  delicate  young 
larches  spring  up  ahead;  between  them  open 
filmy  vistas,  like  windows  draped  in  lace,  and 
across  one  vista  stretches  a  ribbon  of  silver.  A 
few  more  steps  and — there!  my  little  pond  is 
smiling  at  you,  reflecting  the  blue  deeps  of  heaven 
or  the  white  of  passing  clouds  from  its  setting  of 
pale-green  larch-trees  and  crimson  mosses. 

And  now,  if  you  are  responsive,  you  shall  have 
a  new  impression  of  this  old  world,  the  wonderful 
impression  which  a  wilderness  lake  gives  at  the 
moment  of  discovery,  but  never  again  afterward. 

[241] 


How  Animals  Talk 


As  you  emerge  from  cover  of  the  woods,  the  pond 
seems  to  awaken  like  a  sleeper.  See,  it  returns 
your  gaze,  and  on  its  quiet  face  is  a  look  of  surprise 
that  you  are  here.  Enjoy  that  first  awakening 
look;  for  there  is  more  of  wisdom  and  pleasure  in 
it,  believe  me,  than  in  hurrying  forth  blindly  in- 
tent on  making  a  map  or  catching  a  trout,  or  doing 
something  else  that  calls  for  sight  to  the  neglect 
of  insigh.t.  All  sciences,  including  chartography 
and  angling,  can  easily  be  learned  by  any  man; 
but  understanding  is  a  gift  of  God,  and  it  comes 
only  to  those  who  keep  their  hearts  open. 

Your  own  nature  is  here  your  best  guide,  and  it 
shows  you  a  surprising  thing:  that  your  old 
habitual  impressions  of  the  world  have  suddenly 
become  novel  and  strange,  as  if  this  smiling  land- 
scape were  but  just  created,  and  you  were  the  first 
to  look  with  seeing  eyes  upon  the  glory  of  it.  It 
tells  you,  further,  if  you  listen  to  its  voice,  that 
creation  is  all  like  this,  under  necessity  to  be 
beautiful,  and  that  the  beauty  is  still  as  delight- 
ful as  when  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the 
first  day.  This  dance  of  water,  this  rain  of  light, 
this  shimmer  of  air,  this  upspringing  of  trees,  this 
blue  heaven  bending  over  all — no  artist  ever 
painted  such  things;  no  poet  ever  sang  or  could 
sing  them.  Like  a  mother's  infinite  tenderness, 
they  await  your  appreciation,  your  silence,  yo,ur 

[242] 


The  Trail 


love;  but  they  hide  from  your  description  in 
words  or  pigments. 

Finally,  in  the  lowest  of  whispers,  your  nature 
tells  you  that  the  most  impressive  and  still  most 
natural  thing  in  this  quiet  scene  is  the  conscious 
life  that  broods  silently  over  it.  As  the  little  pond 
seems  to  awaken,  to  be  alive  and  sentient,  so  also 
does  that  noble  tree  yonder  when  you  view  it  for 
the  first  time,  or  that  delicate  orchid  wafting  its 
fragrance  over  the  lonely  bog.  Each  reflects  some- 
thing greater  than  itself,  and  it  is  that  greater 
"something"  which  appeals  to  you  when  you 
enter  the  solitude.  Your  impressions  here  are 
those  of  the  first  man,  a  man  who  found  many 
beautiful  things  in  a  garden,  and  God  walking 
among  them  in  the  cool  of  the  day.  Call  the 
brooding  life  God  or  the  Infinite  or  the  Unknown 
or  the  Great  Spirit  or  the  Great  Mystery — what 
you  will;  the  simple  fact  is  that  you  have  an 
impression  of  a  living  Being,  who  first  speaks  to 
you  in  terms  of  personality  that  you  understand. 

So  much,  and  more,  of  eternal  understanding  you 
may  have  if  you  but  tarry  a  moment  under  these 
larches  with  an  open  mind.  Then,  when  you  have 
honored  your  first  impression,  which  will  abide 
with  you  always,  you  may  trace  out  the  physical 
features  of  my  pon.d  at  leisure.  Just  here  it  is 
not  very  wide;  your  eye  easily  overlooks  it  to  rest 

[243] 


How  Animals  Talk 


with  pleasure  on  a  great  mound  of  moss,  colored 
as  no  garden  of  flowers  was  ever  colored,  swelling 
above  the  bog  on  the  farther  shore.  On  either 
hand  the  water  sparkles  wider  away,  disappearing 
around  a  bend  with  an  invitation  to  come  and 
see.  To  the  left  it  ends  in  velvety  shadow  under 
a  bank  of  evergreen ;  to  the  right  it  seems  to  merge 
into,  the  level  shore,  where  shadow  melts  with 
substance  in  a  belt  of  blended  colors.  A  few  yards 
back  from  the  shore  groups  of  young  larches  lift 
their  misty-green  foliage  above  the  caribou  moss; 
they  seem  not  to  be  rooted  deep  in  the  earth,  but 
to  be  all  standing  on  tiptoe,  as  if  to  look  over  the 
brim  of  my  pond  and  see  their  own  reflections. 
Everywhere  between  these  larch  groups  are  shad- 
owy corridors;  and  in  one  of  them  your  eye  is 
caught  by  a  spot  of  bright  orange.  The  spot 
moves,  disappears,  flashes  out  again  from  the 
misty  green,  and  a  deer  steps  forth  to  complete 
the  wilderness  picture  with  the  grace  of  life. 

Such  is  my  pond,  hidden  away  in  the  heart  of  a 
caribou  bog,  which  is  itself  well  hidden  in  dense 
forest.  Before  I  found  it  the  wild  ducks  had  made 
it  a  summer  home  from  time  immemorial;  and 
now,  since  I  disturb  it  no  more,  it  is  possessed  in 
peace  by  a  family  of  beavers ;  yet  I  still  think  of 
it  as  mine3  not  by  grace  of  any  artificial  law  or 
deed,  but  ty  the  more  ancient  right  of  possession 

[244] 


The  Trail 


and  enjoyment.  A  hundred  lakes  by  which  I  have 
tented  are  greater  or  more  splendid ;  but  the  first 
charm  of  any  wilderness  scene  is  its  solitude,  and 
on  these  greater  lakes  the  impression  of  solitude 
may  be  broken  by  the  flash  of  a  paddle-blade  in 
the  sun,  or  the  chuck  of  an  ax  under  the  twilight, 
or  the  gleam  of  a  camp-fire  through  the  darkness. 
But  here  on  my  pond  you  may  know  how  Adam 
felt  when  he  looked  abroad:  no  raft  has  ever 
ruffled  its  surface;  no  ax-stroke  or  moan  of  smitten,, 
tree  has  ever  disturbed  its  quiet ;  no  camp-fire  has 
ever  gleamed  on  its  waters.  Its  solitude  is  still 
that  of  the  first  day;  and  it  has  no  name,  save 
for  the  Indian  word  that  came  unbidden  at  the 
moment  of  finding  it,  like  another  Sleeping  Beauty, 
in  the  woods. 

Do  you  ask  how  I  came  to  find  my  pond?  Not 
by  searching,  but  rather  by  the  odd  chance  of  being 
myself  lost.  I  had  gone  astray  one  afternoon, 
and  was  pushing  through  some  black  growth  when 
an  alarm  rose  near  at  hand.  A  deer  whistled 
loudly,  crying  "Heu!  heu!  heu!"  as  he  jumped 
away,  and  on  the  heels  of  his  cry  came  a  quacking 
of  flushed  ducks. 

Till  that  moment  I  thought  I  knew  where  I 

was;   but  the  quacking  brought  doubt,  and  then 

bewilderment.     If  a  duck  tells  you  anything  in  the 

woods,  he  tells  you  of  water,  plenty  of  it ;  but  the 

IT  [  245  ] 


How  Animals  Talk 


map  showed  no  body  of  water  nearer  than  Big 
Pine  Pond,  which  I  had  fished  that  day,  and  which 
should  be  three  or  four  miles  behind  me.  Turning 
in  the  direction  of  the  alarm,  I  soon  broke  out 
of  the  cover  upon  a  caribou  bog,  a  mysterious 
expanse  never  before  suspected  in  that  region, 
and  before  me  was  the  gleam  of  water  in  the  sun- 
shine. "A  pond,  a  new  one,  and  what  a  beauty!" 
I  thought  with  elation,  as  I  caught  its  awakening 
look  and  feasted  my  eyes  on  its  glory  of  color. 
Then  I  gave  it  an  Indian  name  and  hurried  away; 
for  I  was  surely  off  my  course,  and  the  hour  was 
late  for  lingering  in  strange  woods.  Somewhere 
to  the  west  of  me  was  the  home  lake ;  so  westward 
I  headed,  making  a  return-compass  of  bent  twigs, 
till  I  set  my  feet  in  a  branch  of  the  old  logging- 
road.  And  that  chance  trail  is  the  one  I  have 
ever  since  followed. 


XI 


NEXT  morning  I  returned  to  explore  my  find  at 
leisure.  One  part  of  that  exploration  was  to 
go  completely  around  the  bog,  to  learn  its  guiding 
landmarks  and  compass-bearings;  but  an  earlier 
and  better  part  was  to  sit  quietly  beside  my  pond 
to  hear  whatever  it  might  have  to  say  to  me.  If 
that  last  sounds  fanciful,  remember  that  many 
things  are  voiceless  in  this  world,  but  few  are 
wholly  dumb.  Of  the  numberless  ponds  that 
brighten  the  northern  wilderness,  some  were  made 
by  beavers,  others  by  flood  or  glacier  or  earth- 
quake, and  no  two  of  them  tell  the  same  story 
or  make  the  same  impression.  They  are  like  so 

[247] 


How  Animals  Talk 


many  unspoiled  Indians,  whom  we  regard  from  a 
distance  as  being  mysteriously  alike,  but  who  have 
different  traditions,  ideals,  personalities,  and  even 
different  languages. 

I  know  not  what  the  spell  of  any  lonely  place 
may  be  when  you  make  yourself  part  of  it ;  I  only 
know  that  it  stirs  one  strangely,  like  the  flute  note 
of  a  wood-thrush  or  a  song  without  words.  Though 
I  never  met  with  an  adventure  on  my  little  pond, 
never  cast  a  fly  to  learn  whether  any  trout  lurked 
in  its  waters,  never  thought  of  firing  a  shot  at  its 
abundant  game,  yet  season  after  season  I  returned 
to  it  expectantly,  and  went  away  satisfied.  Such 
a  pond  has  a  charm  of  its  own,  a  spell  which  our 
forebears  sought  to  express  in  terms  of  nymphs 
or  puckwudgies  or  water-sprites.  It  grows  a  better 
crop  than  trout,  attracts  a  finer  game  than  deer  or 
water-fowl,  and  you  can  seldom  visit  it  without 
learning  something  new  about  your  natural  self 
or  the  wood  folk  or  the  friendly  universe. 

Thus,  it  happens  on  a  day  when  you  are  waiting 
beside  your  pond,  or  wending  your  way  to  it,  that 
a  moose  or  a  fox  or  a  dainty  grouse  appears  un- 
expectedly near  you;  and  instantly,  without 
thought  or  motive,  you  "freeze"  in  your  tracks  or, 
if  you  are  not  seen,  shrink  deeper  into  the  shadow 
for  concealment.  The  action  is  natural,  invol- 
untary, instinctive,  precisely  like  the  action  of  a 

[248] 


Woodsy  Impressions 


young  deer  under  similar  circumstances ;  but  when 
it  is  over  you  understand  it,  and  smile  at  finding 
yourself  becoming  more  and  more  like  other  natural 
creatures, — going  softly,  that  is,  making  yourself 
inconspicuous  without  trying  or  knowing  how,  and 
having  no  thought  of  harm  to  any  bird  or  beast, 
but  only  of  watching  him  or  gauging  his  course 
while  remaining  yourself  unseen.  Only  by  some 
such  method  can  you  learn  anything  worth  know- 
ing about  a  wild  animal:  books  describe,  natural- 
ists classify  and  sportsmen  kill  him ;  but  to  under- 
stand him  you  must  be  a  sharer  of  his  quiet  ways. 

Comes  another  day,  a  day  when  you  are  in  love 
with  solitude  itself,  when  you  learn  with  surprise 
that  a  man  is  never  lonely  when  alone  in  the  woods ; 
that  ideals  may  be  quite  as  companionable  as 
folks;  and  that  around  you  in  a  goodly  company 
are  beauty,  peace,  spacious  freedom  and  har- 
monious thoughts,  with  a  hint  also,  to  some  minds, 
of  angels  and  ministers  of  grace.  The  Attendant 
Spirit  of  "Comus,"  the  Ariel  of  "The  Tempest," 
the  good  fairies  of  all  folk, — these  are  never  under- 
stood in  the  town,  nor  in  the  woods  unless  you 
enter  them  alone. 

At  a  later  time,  and  with  a  thrill  of  great  wonder, 
you  may  discover  the  meaning  of  silence,  and  of 
the  ancient  myth  of  a  lovely  goddess  of  silence; 
not  the  dead  silence  of  a  dungeon,  which  may  roar 

[249! 


How  Animals  Talk 


in  a  man's  ears  till  it  deafens  him  or  drives  him 
mad,  but  the  exquisite  living  silence  of  nature, 
a  silence  which  at  any  moment  may  break  into  an 
elfin  ringing  of  bells,  or  into  a  faintly  echoing 
sound  of  melody,  as  if  stars  or  unseen  beings  were 
singing  far  away. 

This  impression  of  melody  is  often  real,  not 
illusory,  and  may  be  explained  by  the  impact  of 
air-currents  on  resonant  shells  of  wood,  hundreds 
of  which  fall  to  humming  with  the  voice  of  'cellos 
and  wind-harps;  but  there  is  another  experience 
of  the  solitude,  more  subtle  but  none  the  less  real, 
for  which  only  the  psychologist  will  venture  to 
give  an  accounting.  Once  in  a  season,  perhaps, 
comes  an  hour  when,  no  matter  what  your  plans 
or  desires  may  be,  your  mind  seems  intent  on 
some  unrelated  affair  of  its  own.  As  you  hurry 
over  the  trail,  you  may  be  thinking  of  catching  a 
trout  or  stalking  a  buck  or  building  a  camp  or 
getting  to  windward  of  a  corporation;  meanwhile 
your  subconscious  mind,  disdaining  your  will  or 
your  worry,  is  busily  making  pictures  of  whatever 
attractive  thing  it  sees, — radiant  little  pictures, 
sunshiny  or  wind-swept,  which  shall  be  reproduced 
for  your  pleasure  long  after  the  important  matters 
which  then  occupied  you  are  clean  forgotten. 

Here  is  the  story  of  one  such  picture,  a  reflection, 
no  doubt,  of  the  primitive  trait  or  quality  called 

[250] 


Woodsy  Impressions 


place-memory,  which  enables  certain  animals  or 
savages  to  recognize  any  spot  on  which  their  eyes 
have  once  rested. 

One  late  afternoon,  years  after  I  had  found  my 
pond,  I  crossed  the  mountain  from  distant  Ragged 
Lake,  heading  for  the  home  lake  by  a  new  route. 
There  was  no  trail;  but  near  the  foot  of  the 
western  slope  of  the  hills  I  picked  up  an  old  lumber 
road  which  seemed  to  lead  in  the  right  direction. 
For  a  time  all  went  well,  and  confidently;  but 
when  the  road  dipped  into  an  immense  hollow, 
and  there  showed  signs  of  petering  out,  I  followed 
it  with  increasing  doubt,  not  knowing  where  I 
might  come  out  of  the  woods  or  be  forced  to  spend 
the  night.  As  I  circled  through  a  swale,  having 
left  the  road  to  avoid  a  press  of  alders  that  filled 
it,  an  ash-tree  lifted  its  glossy  head  above  a 
thicket  with  a  cheery  "Well  met  again,  pilgrim! 
Whither  away  now?" 

It  was  a  surprising  hail  in  that  wild  place,  sug- 
gestive of  dreams  or  sleep-walking;  but  under  the 
illusion  was  a  grain  of  reality  which  brought  me  to 
an  instant  halt.  After  passing  under  thousands 
of  silent  trees  all  day,  suddenly  here  was  one  speak- 
ing to  me.  And  not  only  that,  but  wearing  a 
familiar  look,  like  a  face  which  smiles  its  recogni- 
tion of  you  while  you  try  in  vain  to  place  it. 
Where,  when  had  I  seen  that  tree  before?  No, 

[251] 


How  Animals  Talk 


impossible!  I  had  never  before  entered  this  part 
of  the  vast  forest.  Yet  I  must  have  seen  it  some- 
where,, or  it  could  not  now  stir  a  familiar  memory. 
Nonsense!  just  a  trick  of  the  imagination.  I  must 
hurry  on.  Thus  my  thoughts  ran,  like  a  circling 
hare;  and  all  the  while  the  ash-tree  seemed  to  be 
smiling  at  my  perplexity. 

The  man  who  ignores  such  a  hint  has  much  to 
learn  about  woodcraft,  which  is  largely  a  sub- 
conscious art;  so  I  sat  down  to  smoke  a  council- 
pipe  with  myself  and  the  ash-tree  over  the  matter. 
No  sooner  was  the  mind  left  to  its  own  unhampered 
way  than  it  began  to  piece  bits  of  a  puzzle-picture 
deftly  together;  and  when  the  picture  was  com- 
plete I  knew  exactly  where  I  was,  and  where  I 
might  quickly  find  a  familiar  trail.  Eight  years 
before,  in  an  idle  hour  when  nothing  stirred  on 
my  pond,  I  had  explored  a  mile  or  so  beyond  the 
bog  to  the  south,  only  to  find  a  swampy,  desolate 
country  without  a  trail  or  conspicuous  landmark 
of  any  kind.  It  was  while  I  passed  through  this 
waste,  seeking  nothing  in  particular  and  returning 
to  my  pond,  that  the  mind  took  its  snapshot  of  a 
certain  tree,  and  preserved  the  picture  so  carefully, 
so  minutely,  that  years  later  the  original  was  in- 
stantly recognized.  Many  similar  ash-trees  grew 
on  that  flat,  each  with  its  glossy  crown  and  its 
gray  shaft  flecked  by  dark-green  moss;  what 

[252] 


TTis  massive  head  thrust  forward  as  he  tried  to  penetrate  the  far 


distance  with  his  near-sighted  eyes. 


Woodsy  Impressions 


there  was  in  this  one  to  attract  me,  what  outward 
grace  or  inward  tree-sprite,  I  have  not  yet  found 
out. 

Another  subconscious  record  seems  to  have  been 
made  for  beauty  alone,  with  its  consequent  pleas- 
ure, rather  than  for  utility.  As  I  watched  my 
pond  one  summer  morning,  intent  on  learning 
what  attracted  so  many  deer  to  its  shores,  the 
mind  apparently  chose  its  own  moment  for  making 
a  perfect  picture,  a  masterpiece,  which  should  hang 
in  its  woodsy  frame  on  my  mental  wall  forever. 
The  sky  was  wondrously  clear,  the  water  dancing, 
the  air  laden  with  the  fragrance  of  peat  and 
sweet-scented  grass.  Deer  were  slow  in  coming 
that  morning,  and  meanwhile  nothing  of  conse- 
quence stirred  on  my  pond;  but  there  was  still 
abundant  satisfaction  in  the  brilliant  dragon- 
flies  that  balanced  on  bending  reeds,  or  in  the 
brood  of  wild  ducks  that  came  bobbing  out  like 
young  mischief-makers  from  a  hidden  bogan,  or 
even  in  the  face  of  the  pond  itself,  as  it  brightened 
under  a  gleam  of  sunshine  or  frowned  at  a  passing 
cloud  or  broke  into  a  laugh  at  the  touch  of  a  cat's- 
paw  wind.  Suddenly  all  these  pleasant  minor  mat- 
ters were  brushed  aside  when  a  bush  quivered  and 
held  still  on  the  farther  shore. 

All  morning  the  bushes  had  been  quivering, 
showing  the  silvery  side  of  their  leaves  to  every 

[253] 


How  Animals  Talk 


breeze;  but  now  their  motion  spoke  of  life,  and 
spoke  truly,  for  out  from  under  the  smitten  bil- 
berries came  a  bear  to  stand  alert  in  the  open. 
The  fore  part  of  his  body  was  lifted  up  as  he 
planted  his  paws  on  a  tussock;  his  massive  head 
was  thrust  forward  as  he  tried  to  penetrate  the  far 
distance  with  his  near-sighted  eyes.  He  was  not 
suspicious,  not  a  bit;  his  nose  held  steady  as  a 
pointing  dog's,  instead  of  rocking  up  and  down, 
as  it  does  when  a  bear  tries  to  steal  a  message 
from  the  air.  A  moment  he  poised  there,  a  statue 
of  ebony  against  the  crimson  moss;  then  he 
leaped  a  bogan  with  surprising  agility,  and  came 
at  his  easy,  shuffling  gait  around  a  bend  of  the 
shore.  Opposite  me  he  sat  down  to  cock  his  nose 
at  the  sky,  twisting  his  head  as  he  followed  the 
motion  of  something  above  him,  which  I  could  not 
see, — a  hornet,  perhaps,  or  a  troublesome  fly  that 
persisted  in  buzzing  about  his  ears.  Twice  he 
struck  quickly  with  a  paw,  apparently  missing 
the  lively  thing  overhead;  for  he  jumped  up, 
rushed  ahead  violently  and  spun  around  on  the 
pivot  of  his  toes.  Then  he  settled  soberly  to  his 
flat-footed  shuffle  once  more,  and  disappeared  in 
a  clump  of  larches,  which  seemed  to  open  a  door 
for  him  as  he  drew  near. 

For  me  that  little  comedy  was  never  repeated, 
though  I  saw  many  another  on  dark  days  or  bright ; 

[254] 


Woodsy  Impressions 


and  the  last  time  I  visited  my  pond  I  beheld  it 
sadly  altered,  its  beauty  vanished,  its  shores 
flooded,  its  green  trees  stark  and  dead.  Unknown 
to  me,  however,  the  mind  had  made  its  photo- 
graphic record,  and  always  I  see  my  pond,  as  on 
that  perfect  day,  in  its  setting  of  misty-green 
larches  and  crimson  bog.  Again  its  quiet  face 
changes,  like  a  human  face  at  pleasant  thoughts, 
and  over  it  comes  to  me  the  odor  of  sweet-scented 
grass.  The  sunshine  brightens  it;  the  clouds 
shadow  it;  brilliant  dragon-flies  play  among  its 
bending  reeds ;  the  same  brood  of  ducklings  glides 
in  or  out  from  bogan  to  grassy  bogan ;  and  forever 
the  bear,  big  and  glossy  black,  goes  shuffling  along 
the  farther  shore. 


XII 


ONE  of  the  subtler  charms  of  my  pond,  a 
thing  felt  rather  than  seen,  was  a  certain  air 
of  secrecy  which  seldom  left  it.  In  every  wilder- 
ness lake  lurks  a  mystery  of  some  kind,  which  you 
cannot  hope  to  penetrate, — a  sense  of  measureless 
years,  of  primal  far-off  things,  of  uncouth  creatures 
dead  and  gone  that  haunted  its  banks  before  the 
infancy  of  man;  but  on  this  little  pond,  with  its 
sunny  waters  and  open  shore,  the  mystery  was 
always  pleasant,  and  at  times  provoking,  as  if  it 
might  be  the  place  where  an  end  of  the  rainbow 
rested. 

Though  small  enough  to  give  one  a  sense  of 
possession  (one  can  never  feel  that  he  owns  a  big 

[256] 


Larch-trees  and  Deer 


lake,  or  anything  else  which  gives  an  impression  of 
grandeur  or  sublimity),  my  pond  had  a  mischievous 
way  of  hinting,  when  you  were  most  comfortable, 
that  it  was  hiding  a  secret ;  that  it  might  show  you, 
if  it  would,  a  much  better  scene  than  that  you 
looked  upon.  It  was  shaped  somewhat  like  an 
immense  pair  of  spectacles,  having  two  lobes  that 
were  flashing  bright,  with  a  narrow  band  of  darker 
water  between;  and,  what  with  its  bending  shores 
or  intervening  larches,  you  could  never  see  the 
whole  of  it  from  any  one  place.  So,  like  eyes  that 
hide  their  subtlest  lights  of  whim  or  fancy  under 
glasses,  it  often  seemed  to  be  holding  something 
in  reserve,  something  which  it  would  not  reveal 
unless  you  searched  for  it.  After  watching  awhile 
from  one  beautiful  or  restful  spot,  you  began  to 
feel  or  imagine  that  some  comedy  was  passing 
unseen  on  the  other  half  of  the  pond ;  and  though 
you  resisted  the  feeling  at  first,  sooner  or  later 
you  crept  through  the  screen  of  larches  to  know 
if  it  were  true. 

On  every  side  of  the  pond  save  one,  where  a 
bank  of  evergreen  made  velvet  shadows  inter- 
mingled with  spots  of  heavenly  blue,  the  shores 
were  thickly  spread  with  mosses,  which  began  to 
color  gloriously  in  midsummer,  the  colors  deep- 
ening as  the  season  waned,  till  the  reflecting  water 
appeared  as  the  glimmering  center  of  a  gorgeous 

[257] 


How  Animals  Talk 


Oriental  rug.  Along  the  edges  of  this  rug,  as  a 
ragged  fringe,  stood  groups  of  larches  in  irregular 
order, — little  fairylike  larches  that  bore  their 
crown  of  leaves  not  as  other  trees  bear  them, 
heavily,  but  as  a  floating  mist  or  nebula  of  sage 
green.  Like  New  England  ladies  of  a  past  age 
they  seemed,  each  wearing  a  precious  lace  shawl 
which  gave  an  air  of  daintiness  to  their  sterling 
worth.  When  the  time  came  for  the  leaves  to  fall, 
instead  of  rustling  down  to  earth  with  a  sound  of 
winter,  mournfully,  they  would  scamper  away  on 
a  merry  wind,  mingling  their  fragrance  with  that 
of  the  ripened  grass ;  and  then  the  twigs  appeared 
plainly  for  the  first  time,  with  a  little  knot  or  twist 
in  every  twig,  like  toil-worn  fingers  that  the  lace 
had  concealed. 

Here  or  there  amid  this  delicate  new  growth 
towered  the  ruin  of  a  mighty  tamarack,  or  ship- 
knee  larch,  such  as  men  sought  in  the  old  clipper- 
ship  days  when  they  needed  timbers  lighter  than 
oak,  and  even  tougher  to  resist  the  pressure  of 
the  gale  or  the  waves'  buffeting.  Once,  before  the 
shipmen  penetrated  thus  far  into  the  wilderness, 
the  tamaracks  stood  here  in  noble  array,  their 
heads  under  clouds,  beckoning  hungry  caribou 
to  feed  from  the  lichens  that  streamed  from  their 
broad  arms  above  the  drifted  snow;  now  most  of 
them  are  under  the  moss,  which  covered  them 

[258] 


Larch-trees  and  Deer 


tenderly  when  they  fell.  The  few  remaining  ones 
stand  as  watch-towers  for  the  hawks  and  eagles; 
their  broken  branches  make  strange  sepia  draw- 
ings of  dragon-knots  and  hooked  beaks  on  the  blue 
sky.  A  tiny  moth  killed  all  these  great  larches; 
the  caribou  moved  northward,  leaving  the  country, 
and  the  deer  moved  in  to  take  possession. 

This  and  many  other  stories  of  the  past  my  little 
pond  told  me,  as  I  watched  from  its  shores  or  fol- 
lowed the  game-trails  that  were  spread  like  a  net 
about  its  edges.  Back  in  the  woods  these  trails 
wandered  about  in  devious  fashion,  seeking  good 
browse  or  easy  traveling;  while  here  or  there  a 
faint  outgoing  branch  offered  to  lead  you,  if  your 
eyes  were  keen,  to  the  distant  ridge  where  a  big 
buck  had  his  daily  loafing-place.  On  the  bog  the 
trails  went  more  circumspectly,  uniting  at  certain 
places  in  a  single  deep  path,  a  veritable  path  of 
ages,  which  was  the  only  path  that  might  safely 
be  followed  by  any  creature  with  more  weight 
than  a  fox.  The  moment  you  ventured  away 
from  it  the  ground  began  to  shiver,  to  quake 
alarmingly,  to  sink  down  beneath  your  feet.  Only 
a  thin  mat  of  roots  kept  you  afloat;  the  roots 
might  anywhere  part  and  drop  you  into  black 
bottomless  ooze,  and  close  forever  over  your  head. 
A  queer  place,  one  might  think,  for  heavy  beasts 
to  gather,  and  so  it  was ;  but  the  old  caribou-trails 

[259] 


How  Animals  Talk 


or  new  deer-paths  offered  every  one  of  them  safe 
footing. 

At  first  these  game-trails  puzzled  me  com- 
pletely, being  so  many  and  so  pointless.  That 
they  were  in  constant  use  was  evident  from  the 
footprints  in  them,  which  were  renewed  almost 
every  morning;  yet  I  never  once  saw  a  deer 
approach  the  water  to  drink  or  feed.  Something 
else  attracted  them;  a  highway  from  one  feeding- 
ground  to  another,  it  might  be,  or  the  wider  out- 
look which  brings  deer  and  caribou  out  of  their 
dim  woods  to  sightly  places;  but  there  was  no 
certainty  in  the  matter  until  the  animals  them- 
selves revealed  the  secret.  One  day,  when  a 
young  buck  passed  my  hiding-place  as  if  he  were 
going  somewhere,  I  followed  him  to  the  upper 
or  southern  end  of  the  pond.  There  he  joined 
four  other  deer,  which  were  very  busy  about  a 
certain  spot,  half  hidden  by  low  bushes,  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  back  from  the  shore.  And  there 
they  stayed,  apparently  eating  or  drinking,  for  a 
full  half-hour  or  more. 

When  the  deer  were  gone  away,  I  went  over  and 
found  a  huge  spring,  to  which  converged  a  dozen 
deep  trails.  Like  the  hub  of  an  immense  wheel  it 
seemed:  the  radiating  paths  were  the  spokes,  and 
somewhere  beyond  the  horizon  was  the  unseen 
rim.  From  the  depths  of  the  spring  came  a  sur- 

[260! 


Larch-trees  and  Deer 


prising  volume  of  clear,  coffee-colored  water,  bub- 
bling over  joyously  as  it  leaped  from  the  dark 
earth  into  the  light,  and  then  stealing  quietly 
away  under  bending  grasses  to  keep  my  pond 
brim  full.  Around  the  spring  the  earth  was 
pitted  by  the  feet  of  deer,  and  everywhere  about 
its  edges  were  holes  lapped  in  the  peat  by  eager 
tongues.  Here,  beyond  a  doubt,  was  what  called 
so  many  animals  to  my  pond, — a  mineral  spring 
or  salt-lick,  such  as  we  read  about  in  stories  of 
pioneer  days,  when  game  was  everywhere  abun- 
dant, but  such  as  one  now  rarely  finds. 

After  that  happy  discovery  I  shifted  my  blind 
to  another  larch  with  low-drooping  branches,  be- 
neath which  one  might  rest  comfortably  and  look 
out  through  a  screen  of  lace  upon  a  gathering  of 
the  deer.  They  are  creatures  of  habit  as  well  as 
of  freedom;  and  one  of  their  habits  is  to  rest  at 
regular  intervals,  the  hours  being  hard  to  forecast, 
since  they  vary  not  only  with  the  season  of 
lengthening  or  shortening  days,  but  also  each 
month  with  the  changes  of  the  moon.  Thus,  when 
the  moon  fulls  and  weather  is  clear,  deer  are 
abroad  most  of  the  night.  At  dawn  they  seek 
their  day-beds,  instinctively  removing  far  from 
where  they  have  left  their  scent  in  feeding;  and 
during  the  day  they  are  apt  to  remain  hidden  save 
for  one  brief  hour,  when  they  take  a  comforting 
is  [  261 1 


How  Animals  Talk 


bite  here  or  there,  giving  the  impression  that  they 
eat  now  from  habit  rather  than  from  hunger.  As 
the  moon  wanes  they  change  their  hours  to  take 
advantage  of  its  shining;  and  on  the  "dark  of  the 
moon"  they  browse  only  in  the  early  part  of  the 
night,  then  rest  many  hours,  and  have  two  periods 
of  feeding  or  roaming  the  next  day. 

Such  seems  to  be  the  rule  in  the  North,  with 
plenty  of  exceptions  to  keep  one  guessing, — as  in 
the  November  mating-season,  when  bucks  are 
afoot  at  all  hours;  or  during  a  severe  storm,  which 
keeps  deer  and  all  other  wild  animals  close  in  their 
coverts. 

Because  of  this  regularity  of  habit  at  irregular 
hours,  the  only  certainty  about  the  salt-lick  was 
that  the  animals  would  come  if  one  waited  long 
enough.  As  I  watched  expectantly  from  my 
larch  bower,  the  morning  shadows  might  creep 
up  to  me,  halt,  and  lengthen  away  on  the  other 
side,  while  not  a  deer  showed  himself  in  the  open. 
Then  there  would  be  a  stir  in  the  distant  larches, 
a  flash  of  bright  color;  a  doe  would  emerge  from 
one  of  the  game-trails,  hastening  her  springy  steps 
as  she  neared  the  spring.  As  my  eyes  followed 
her,  noting  with  pleasure  her  graceful  poses,  her 
unwearied  alertness,  her  frequent  turning  of  the 
head  to  one  distant  spot  in  the  woods  where  she 
had  left  her  fawn,  there  would  come  another 

[262! 


Larch-trees  and  Deer 


flash  of  color  from  another  trail,  then  two  or  three 
in  a  flecking  of  light  and  shadow,  till  half  a  dozen 
or  more  deer  were  gathered  at  the  lick,  some  lap- 
ping the  mud  eagerly,  others  sipping,  sipping,  as 
if  they  could  never  have  enough  of  the  water. 
After  a  time  they  would  slip  away  as  they  had 
come,  singly  or  in  groups;  the  spring  would  be 
deserted,  and  one  could  never  tell  how  many  hours 
or  days  might  pass  before  another  company  began 
to  gather. 

However  eager  for  salt  they  might  be,  the  deer 
came  or  went  in  that  mysteriously  silent  way  of 
theirs,  appearing  without  warning  in  one  trail,  or 
vanishing  down  another  without  a  sound  to  mark 
their  passing.  Now  and  then,  however,  especially 
if  one  watched  at  the  exquisite  twilight  hour,  a 
very  different  entrance  might  be  staged  on  the 
lonely  bog, — a  gay,  prancing  "here  I  come:  get 
out  of  the  way"  kind  of  entrance,  which  made 
one  glad  he  had  stayed  to  witness  it.  On  the 
slope  of  the  nearest  ridge  your  eye  would  catch 
an  abrupt  motion,  the  upward  surge  of  a  bough 
or  the  spring-back  of  a  smitten  bush;  presently 
to  your  ears  would  come  a  rapid  thudding  of 
earth,  or  a  sqush,  sqush,  sqush  of  water;  the 
larches  would  burst  open  and  a  buck  leap  forth, 
flourishing  broad  antlers  or  kicking  up  mad  heels 
as  he  went  gamboling  down  the  game-trail.  If 

[263] 


How  Animals  Talk 


other  deer  were  at  the  spring,  they  would  throw 
up  their  heads,  set  their  ears  at  the  dancing  buck, 
take  a  last  quick  sip  from  the  spring,  and  move 
aside  as  he  jumped  in  to  muzzle  the  mud  as  if 
famished.  For  it  was  the  mud  rather  than  the 
water  which  first  claimed  his  attention,  no  doubt 
because  it  held  more  of  the  magic  salt.  He  often 
gave  the  impression,  as  he  approached  in  high 
feather,  that  he  had  been  tasting  the  stuff  in 
anticipation  and  could  hardly  wait  to  get  his 
tongue  into  it. 

The  first  time  I  saw  that  frisky  performance  I 
went  over  to  taste  the  mud  for  myself,  but  found 
little  to  distinguish  it  from  the  mud  of  any  other 
peat-bog.  The  water  from  the  spring  was  whole- 
some, with  a  faint  taste  of  something  I  could  not 
name;  and  I  drank  it  repeatedly  without  learning 
its  secret.  That  it  held  a  charm  of  some  kind, 
which  chemistry  might  reveal,  was  evident  from 
the  fact  that  deer  came  from  miles  around  to  enjoy 
its  flavor.  Some  of  the  trails  could  be  traced 
clear  across  the  bog  to  distant  ridges  and  a  broken 
country  beyond;  and  in  following  these  trails,  to 
learn  what  creatures  used  them  and  where  they 
came  from,  I  repeatedly  came  upon  a  deer  asleep 
in  his  day-bed.  Whether  the  animals  couched 
here  before  drinking  at  the  spring,  or  after  drink- 
ing, or  "just  by  happentry"  I  could  not  tell. 

[264] 


Larch-trees  and  Deer 


Once  the  sleeper  was  a  buck  with  noble  antlers. 
He  was  resting  beside  a  great  log  on  the  edge  of  an 
opening,  half  surrounded  by  dense  fir  thickets.  I 
speak  of  him  as  asleep ;  but  that  is  mere  habit  of 
speech  or  poverty  of  language.  Of  a  score  of  wild 
birds  or  beasts  that  I  have  found  "asleep"  in 
the  woods,  not  one  seemed  to  lose  touch  with  the 
waking  world  even  for  an  instant.  The  buck's 
eyelids  were  blinking,  his  head  nodding  heavily; 
yet  all  the  while  his  feet  were  curled  in  readiness 
for  an  instant  jump;  and  somehow  those  expres- 
sive feet  gave  the  impression  of  being  as  wide  awake 
as  a  squirrel.  Occasionally  as  I  watched  him, 
fascinated  by  the  rare  sight,  his  head  would  drop 
almost  to  the  ground,  only  to  be  jerked  up  with 
an  air  of  immense  surprise ;  then  the  sleepy  fellow 
would  stare  in  a  filmy,  unseeing,  "who  said  I  was 
asleep"  kind  of  way  at  a  little  tree  that  stood 
in  the  opening.  The  stare  would  end  with  a  slow 
closing  of  the  eyelids,  and  in  a  moment  he  would 
be  nodding  again. 


XIII 

NEXT  to  the  deer,  the  wild  ducks  were  the 
chief  attraction  of  my  pond.  Indeed,  they 
might  well  be  placed  first,  since  they  were  always 
at  home  there,  and  much  of  the  time  engaged  in 
one  or  another  of  the  little  comedies  that  make 
ducks  the  most  amusing  of  all  birds.  Eight  sum- 
mers in  succession,  and  again  after  an  interval 
of  two  years,  I  found  my  pond  occupied  by  a  pair 
of  black  mallards  with  their  brood;  and  I  fancied, 
since  migratory  birds  return  to  the  place  of  their 
birth,  and  their  nestlings  after  them,  that  one  of 
the  pair  was  the  lineal  descendant  of  ducks  that 
had  held  the  place  in  undisputed  possession  for 
tens  of  thousands  of  years.  Here  was  a  succession, 

[266] 


Black  Mallards 


modest  like  all  true  nobility,  which  made  the 
proud  family  trees  of  Mayflower  folk  or  English 
kings  or  Norman  barons  look  like  young  berry- 
bushes  in  the  shade  of  a  towering  pine. 

Until  late  midsummer  the  family  had  the  pond 
all  to  themselves.  Never  a  stranger-duck  ap- 
peared to  share  or  challenge  their  heritage;  while 
day  after  day  the  mother  watched  over  the  little 
brood  as  they  fed  or  played  or  learned  the  wild- 
duck  signals.  Like  our  dogs,  every  manner  of 
beast  or  bird  has  its  own  tribal  ways  or  customs, 
some  of  which  do  not  appear  in  the  young  until 
they  begin  to  roam  abroad  or  to  mingle  with  their 
kind.  So,  as  I  watched  the  brood  emerge  from 
down  to  pin-feathers,  there  would  come  a  red- 
letter  day  when  two  of  them,  meeting  as  they 
rounded  a  grassy  point,  would  raise  their  wings 
as  if  in  salutation;  and  a  later  day  when,  the 
pin-feathers  having  grown  to  fair  plumage,  their 
young  cheepings  or  whistlings  would  change  to  a 
decided  quack. 

Thereafter  their  talk  was  endlessly  entertaining, 
if  one  took  the  trouble  to  creep  near  enough  to 
appreciate  its  modulations,  expressive  of  every 
emotion  between  drowsiness  and  tense  alarm;  for 
it  cannot  be  heard,  except  as  a  meaningless  sound, 
beyond  a  few  yards.  The  little  hen-ducks  got 
on  famously,  having  the  mother's  quacking  as  a 

[267] 


How  Animals  Talk 


model;  but  male  ducks  cannot  or  will  not  learn 
to  quack,  and  since  a  male  voice  was  rarely  heard 
on  the  pond  at  this  season,  each  little  drake  was  a 
law  unto  himself,  and  made  a  brave  show  of  his 
liberty.  Climbing  on  a  tussock,  as  if  for  more 
room,  he  would  stretch  his  wings,  make  odd  mo- 
tions with  his  neck,  and  finally  pump  out  a  funny 
wheekle,  wheekle,  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a  whistle. 

Meanwhile  the  old  drake  and  father  of  the 
family  was  seldom  about ;  only  two  or  three  times 
did  I  see  him  enter  the  pond,  stay  a  brief  while, 
and  then  wing  away  over  the  tree-tops  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  larger  lake,  some  three  miles  to  the  east- 
ward. On  that  lake  there  was  never  a  brood  of 
young  ducks,  so  far  as  I  could  learn;  but  when 
trout-fishing  there  I  often  surprised  the  drake,  at 
times  taking  precious  care  of  his  own  skin  in 
solitude,  again  clubbing  sociably  with  three  or 
four  other  drakes,  who  had  run  away  each  from  a 
family  and  the  cares  thereof  on  some  other  lonely 
pond. 

As  the  summer  waned,  a  new  sound  of  quack- 
ing, joyous  and  exultant,  would  greet  me  when  I 
drew  near  my  pond.  Creeping  to  my  blind  under 
the  larches,  I  would  find  a  second  brood  making 
merry  acquaintance  with  the  family  I  had  watched 
over;  then  a  third  and  a  fourth  company  of 
strangers,  as  young  ducks  of  all  that  region  began 

[268] 


Black  Mallards 


to  traffic  about  in  preparation  for  the  autumn 
flight.  A  little  later  the  flocks  fairly  reveled  in 
sociability,  gathering  here  or  there  with  increas- 
ing numbers,  till  on  a  late-September  day  I  might 
find  my  pond  deserted,  the  owners  being  on  a  visit 
elsewhere,  or  I  might  catch  breath  at  sight  of  so 
many  ducks  that  I  could  not  accurately  count  them 
or  distinguish  one  brood  from  another. 

At  such  a  time  my  little  pond  seemed  to  awaken, 
to  shed  its  silence  like  a  garment,  to  put  on  its 
most  animated  expression,  as  at  a  happy  festival 
or  family  reunion.  The  air  was  never  still  from 
the  gabble  of  meeting  groups  (probably  all  more  or 
less  related),  or  from  the  resounding  quank,  quank, 
quank  of  some  old  gossip  who  went  about  pro- 
claiming her  opinion  to  the  whole  company. 
Everywhere  the  still  water  was  broken  into  un- 
dulating wakes  as  the  drakes  swept  grandly  over 
it,  with  that  rhythmic,  forward-and-back  motion 
of  their  heads  which  is  like  duck  poetry, — a  motion 
that  is  not  seen  when  the  birds  are  feeding,  but 
only  when  they  are  well  satisfied  with  themselves 
or  their  audience.  Through  the  shadows  under 
the  bank  glided  knots  or  ribbons  of  young  birds 
which  had  not  yet  quite  satisfied  their  appetites, 
some  exploring  every  crevice  for  ripened  seeds, 
others  tip-tilting  their  tails  to  the  blue  sky  as  they 
probed  the  bottom  for  water-bugs  and  other  tit- 

[269] 


How  Animals  Talk 


bits.  In  an  open  space  a  solitary  hen-duck  bobbed 
and  teetered  ecstatically,  dipping  the  fore  part  of 
her  body  under,  then  heaving  it  up  quickly  so 
as  to  send  the  cleansing  water  in  a  foamy  wave 
over  her  back  and  wings.  Here  or  there  on  a 
tussock  stood  a  quiet  group  of  the  splendid  birds, 
oiling  their  glossy  feathers,  setting  a  wing-cover 
just  right,  or  adding  some  other  last  touch  to  an 
elaborate  toilet  before  settling  down  for  a  nap. 

The  glassy  water  reflected  every  form,  color, 
motion  of  these  untroubled  ducks  as  in  a  glass, 
doubling  the  graceful  effect.  Around  them 
stretched  the  gloriously  colored  bog;  and  beyond 
the  bog  were  the  nebulous-green  larches,  the  somber 
black  growth  and  the  lifting  hills,  on  which  au- 
tumn had  laid  its  golden  touch.  Truly  a  beauti- 
ful sight,  a  sight  to  make  the  heart  of  hunter  or 
naturalist  tremble  with  expectancy  as  he  fingered 
his  gun.  I  have  known  that  trembling,  that  ex- 
pectancy; but  there  was  greater  pleasure,  perhaps 
greater  freedom  also,  in  leaving  the  happy  comedy 
undisturbed. 

Because  of  its  solitude,  its  utter  wildness,  my 
pond  seemed  to  be  the  chosen  resting-place  of  the 
flocks  on  an  autumn  day  (they  feed  or  travel 
mostly  by  night),  and  perhaps  for  the  same  reason 
the  ducks  that  frequented  it  were  among  the 
wildest  creatures  I  have  ever  tried  to  stalk.  A 

[270] 


A 


't  such  a  time  my  pond  seemed  to  awaken  and  shed  its  silence  like 
a  garment. 


Black  Mallards 


black  mallard  is  not  an  easy  bird  to  outwit  at 
any  time  or  place ;  but  here  some  magic  mirror 
or  sounding-board  seemed  to  supplement  his  nat- 
ural eyes  or  ears.  The  slightest  unnatural  voice 
or  appearance,  the  snap  of  a  twig  or  the  quiver 
of  a  leaf  or  the  glimpse  of  a  face  in  the  larches, 
would  send  a  flock  away  on  the  instant ;  and  some- 
times, when  I  was  sure  no  sound  or  motion  of 
mine  had  broken  the  perfect  quiet,  they  would 
take  wing  in  such  incomprehensible  fashion  as  to 
leave  me  wondering  what  extra  sense  had  warned 
them  of  danger. 

Several  times  in  the  course  of  a  summer,  when 
I  wanted  to  observe  the  little  duck  family  more 
nearly,  or  to  learn  the  meaning  of  some  queer  play 
that  I  could  not  understand  from  a  distance,  I 
would  creep  out  of  the  larches  unseen,  worming 
my  way  along  a  sunken  deer-path,  and  stopping 
whenever  heads  were  turned  in  my  direction. 
One  might  think  it  an  easy  matter  to  approach 
any  game  by  such  methods;  yet  almost  in- 
variably, before  I  could  be  safe  behind  a  bush 
or  a  tuft  of  grass  at  the  water's  edge,  the  old 
mother-duck  would  become  uneasy,  like  a  deer 
that  catches  a  vague  hint  of  you  floating  far  down 
the  wind.  That  she  could  not  see  or  hear  me  was 
certain;  that  she  could  not  smell  me  I  had  re- 
peatedly proved ;  nevertheless,  after  searching  the 

[271] 


How  Animals  Talk 


shores  narrowly  she  would  stretch  her  neck  straight 
up  from  the  water,  as  if  attentive  to  some  wireless 
message  in  the  air. 

A  wild  duck  does  not  take  that  alert  attitude 
unless  she  is  suspicious;  and  a  curious  thing  was, 
that  though  the  mother  was  silent,  uttering  never 
a  word,  the  young  would  crouch  and  remain  mo- 
tionless wherever  they  happened  to  be.  Sud- 
denly, as  if  certain  of  danger  but  unable  to  locate 
it,  the  mother  would  spring  aloft  to  go  sweeping 
in  wide  circles  over  the  bog.  She  seemed  to  know 
it  by  heart,  every  pool  and  bump  and  shadow  of 
it;  and  when  her  keen  eyes  picked  up  an  unfa- 
miliar shadow  on  a  certain  deer-path  she  would 
come  at  it  with  a  rush,  whirling  over  it  in  an  up- 
ward-climbing spiral  till  she  became  sure  of  me, 
as  of  something  out  of  place,  when  she  would 
speed  away  with  a  warning  note  over  the  tree- 
tops.  If  the  young  were  strong  of  wing,  they 
would  follow  her  swiftly,  giving  wide  berth  to  the 
deer-path  as  if  she  had  told  them  beware  of  it; 
but  if  they  did  not  yet  trust  themselves  in  the  air, 
they  would  skulk  away,  their  heads  down  close 
to  the  water,  and  hide  in  one  of  the  grassy  bogans 
of  the  pond,  where  because  of  the  quaking  shore 
it  was  impossible  to  come  near  them. 

Once,  when  the  mother  left  in  this  way,  I  waited 
till  the  ducklings  had  been  some  minutes  hidden 

[272] 


Black  Mallards 


before  creeping  back  to  my  blind  in  the  larches. 
An  hour  or  more  passed  in  the  timeless  quiet; 
while  the  water  became  as  glass  under  the  after- 
noon sun,  and  a  deer  moved  near  the  hidden  brood 
without  flushing  them  or  even  bringing  a  head  up 
where  I  could  see  it.  Then  the  mother  returned, 
calling  as  she  came;  and  the  first  thing  she  did 
was  to  circle  warily  over  the  same  deer-path, 
stretching  her  neck  down  for  a  close  inspection. 
"Aha!  that  thing  is  gone,  but  where?"  she  said  in 
every  line  and  motion  of  her  inquisitive  head  or 
pulsating  wings,  as  she  sped  away  to  find  the 
answer. 

Twice  she  circled  the  bog,  her  eyes  searching 
every  cranny  and  shadow  of  it.  From  her  high 
flight  she  slanted  straight  down  and  pitched  fair 
in  the  middle  of  the  pond,  where  for  some  moments 
she  sat  motionless,  her  head  up,  looking,  listening, 
— a  perfect  image  of  alertness  in  the  midst  of  wild- 
ness.  Satisfied  at  last  that  no  trouble  was  near, 
she  turned  to  the  shore  with  a  low  call;  and  out  of 
the  bogan  pell-mell  rushed  the  little  ones,  splash- 
ing, cheeping,  half  lifting  themselves  with  their 
tiny  wings  as  they  scurried  over  the  water  to  join 
the  mother.  For  a  full  hour  I  had  kept  my  glasses 
almost  continuously  on  that  bogan;  then  with 
divided  attention  I  cast  expectant  glances  at  it 
when  I  heard  the  mother's  incoming  note,  the 

[273] 


How  Animals  Talk 


whish  of  her  wings  as  she  circled  the  bog  and  the 
splash  as  she  took  the  water;  but  not  till  the 
right  signal  came  did  I  see  a  motion  or  a  sign  of 
life  from  the  hidden  brood. 

The  pond  was  shaped,  as  we  have  noticed,  like  a 
pair  of  spectacles;  and  a  favorite  place  for  the 
autumn  flock  to  rest  or  preen  or  sleep  was  at  the 
bend  between  the  two  lobes.  Down  into  that 
bend  ran  a  screen  of  alder-bushes,  the  only  good 
cover  between  woods  and  water  on  the  entire  pond ; 
and  it  was  so  dense  that  a  cat  could  hardly  have 
crept  through  it  without  making  a  disturbance. 
That  was  one  reason,  I  suppose,  why  the  ducks 
felt  safe  at  the  outer  end  of  the  tangle :  they  could 
see  everything  in  front  or  on  either  side,  and  hear 
anything  that  moved  behind  them. 

One  day,  when  the  shore  at  this  bend  was  freshly 
starred  by  ducks'  feet  and  littered  with  feathers, 
showing  that  a  large  flock  had  just  left  the  roost, 
I  began  at  the  fringe  of  larches  and  cut  a  passage- 
way, a  regular  beaver's  tunnel,  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  alder  run,  making  an  end  in  a  point 
of  grass,  where  the  water  came  close  on  three 
sides.  One  had  to  consider  only  the  birds'  keen 
ears,  the  alder  screen  being  so  thick  that  not 
even  a  duck's  eye  could  penetrate  it;  therefore 
I  smoothed  the  way  most  carefully,  leaving  no 
stick  below  to  crack  under  my  weight,  and  no 

[274] 


Black  Mallards 


branch  reaching  down  to  rustle  or  quiver  as  I 
crawled  beneath  it.  When  the  tunnel  was  well 
finished  I  left  the  pond  to  its  solitude  a  few  days, 
thinking  that  the  birds  would  surely  notice  some 
telltale  sign  of  my  work,  some  fresh-cut  stick  or 
wilted  bough  that  my  eyes  had  overlooked,  and 
be  wary  of  the  alders  for  a  little  time. 

And  why  such  pains  to  get  near  a  bird,  you  ask, 
since  one  might  better  observe  or  shoot  him  from 
a  comfortable  distance?  Oh,  just  a  notion  of 
mine,  an  odd  notion,  which  can  hardly  be  appre- 
ciated till  one  has  proved  it  in  the  open.  As  you 
can  seldom  "feel"  the  quality  of  a  stranger  while 
he  remains  even  a  few  yards  away,  so  with  any 
wild  bird  or  beast:  there  is  an  impression  arising 
from  nearness,  from  contact,  which  cannot  be  had 
in  any  other  way;  and  that  swift  impression, 
which  is  both  physical  and  mental,  a  judgment  as 
it  were  of  the  entire  nature,  is  often  more  illu- 
minating than  hours  of  ordinary  observation  or 
speculation. 

Such  an  impression  is  not  new  or  strange,  or 
even  modernly  psychological.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  the  simplest  matter  in  the  world  of  sense,  I 
think,  and  perhaps  also  the  surest.  Most  animals 
have  a  significant  way  of  touching  their  noses  to 
one  of  their  own  kind  at  irieeting;  not  to  smell 
him,  as  we  imagine  (they  can  smell  him,  or  even 

[275] 


How  Animals  Talk 


his  tracks,  at  a  distance),  but  in  order  to  receive 
a  more  intimate  or  convincing  message  than  the 
sense  of  smell  can  furnish.  Likewise,  a  man 
naturally  pats  the  head  of  a  dog,  or  ringers  an 
object  after  minutely  scanning  it  with  his  eyes; 
and  in  this  instinctive  action  is  the  ancient  touch 
of  recognition.  Touch  is  the  oldest  and  most 
universal  of  the  bodily  senses,  sight,  smell,  taste 
and  hearing  being  later  specializations  thereof; 
by  it  the  living  creature  first  became  aware  of  a 
world  outside  of  self;  and  to  it  we  all  return  for 
verification  of  our  sense  impressions.  Therefore 
it  happens  most  naturally  that,  despite  warning 
signs  or  penalties,  thoughtless  men  will  put  their 
hands  into  the  bear  or  monkey  cage,  where  animals 
are  no  longer  natural  or  to  be  trusted,  and  our 
children  must  be  forever  lectured,  or  sometimes 
spanked,  for  handling  things  which  they  have 
been  told  to  let  alone. 

Besides,  when  one  is  very  near  a  strange  bird 
or  beast,  one  becomes  vaguely  conscious  of  an 
extra  sense  at  work, — that  real  but  uncatalogued 
sense-of-presence  (to  coin  a  name  for  it)  which 
makes  two  persons  in  a  room  aware  of  each  other 
at  every  instant,  even  while  both  are  absorbed  in 
quiet  work  or  reading.  The  "feel"  of  the  same 
room  when  one  occupies  it  alone  is  very  different; 
and  the  difference  may  help  to  explain  why  gre- 

[276] 


Black  Mallards 


garious  animals  are  uncomfortable,  uneasy,  un- 
less they  are  near  their  own  kind, — near  enough, 
that  is,  not  simply  to  hear  or  see  them  but  to 
feel  their  bodily  presence.  A  herd-animal  is  always 
restless,  and  often  sickens,  if  his  herd  is  not  close 
about  him.  The  same  mysterious  sense  (mysteri- 
ous to  us,  because  we  do  not  yet  know  the  organ 
through  which  it  works)  often  warns  the  solitary 
man  in  the  woods  or  in  the  darkness  that  some 
living  creature  is  near  him,  at  a  moment  when  his 
eyes  or  ears  are  powerless  to  verify  his  impression. 

But  that  is  another  and  more  subtle  matter, 
familiar  enough  to  a  few  sensitive  persons  and 
natural  woodsmen,  but  impossible  of  demonstra- 
tion to  others;  you  cannot  explain  color  to  a  man 
born  blind.  The  simple  answer  is,  that  for  my 
own  satisfaction  I  wanted  to  touch  one  of  the 
wary  birds  of  my  pond,  as  I  had  before  touched 
eagle  and  crow,  bear  and  deer,  and  many  another 
wild  creature  in  his  native  woods.  Such  was  the 
notion.  In  other  places  I  had  several  times  tried 
to  indulge  it;  but  save  in  one  instance,  when  I 
found  a  winter  flock  weakened  by  hunger,  I  had 
never  laid  my  hand  fairly  on  a  black  mallard 
when  he  had  the  free  use  of  his  wits  and  wings. 

When  I  returned  to  my  pond,  and  from  a  dis- 
tance swept  my  glasses  over  it,  the  water  was 
alive  with  ducks ;  never  before  had  I  seen  so  many 

19  [  277  ] 


How  Animals  Talk 


there  at  one  time.  Single  large  birds,  the  drakes 
undoubtedly,  were  moving  leisurely  over  the  open 
spaces.  Groups  of  five  or  six,  each  a  brood  from 
some  neighboring  pond,  were  gliding  in  an  explor- 
ing kind  of  way  under  the  banks  or  through  the 
weed-beds;  and  scattered  along  the  shore  at  the 
end  of  the  alder  run  were  wisps  or  companies  ot 
the  birds,  all  preening  or  dozing  with  an  air  of 
complete  security.  Here  at  last  was  my  chance, 
my  perfect  chance,  I  told  myself,  as  I  carefully 
marked  one  brood  standing  at  the  tip  of  the 
grassy  point  where  my  tunnel  ended. 

More  carefully  than  ever  I  stalked  a  bear,  I 
circled  through  the  black  growth,  crept  under  the 
fringe  of  larches,  and  entered  the  alder  run  unob- 
served. Inch  by  inch  I  wormed  along  the  secret 
passageway,  flat  to  the  ground,  not  once  raising  my 
head,  hardly  daring  to  pull  a  full  breath,  till,  just 
as  I  emerged  from  the  alder  shade  into  the  grass, 
a  gamy  scent  in  my  nose  and  a  low  gabble  in  my 
ears  told  me  that  I  was  almost  near  enough,  that 
the  birds  were  all  around  me,  and  that  for  the  rest 
of  the  way  I  must  move  as  a  shadow. 

From  under  my  hat-brim  I  located  the  gabblers, 
a  large  family  of  black  mallards  outside  the  fringe 
of  grass  on  my  left.  They  were  abreast  of  me, 
not  more  than  five  or  six  feet  away.  I  had  not 
marked  these  birds  when  I  began  my  stalk;  they 

[278] 


Black  Mallards 


were  hidden  in  a  tiny  cove  or  bend  of  the  shore, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  their  voices  I  would  surely 
have  crept  past  without  seeing  them.  At  the 
mouth  of  the  cove  was  a  single  tussock,  on  which 
stood  the  mother-duck,  wavering  between  dreams 
and  watchfulness  as  the  sunshine  poured  full  upon 
her,  making  her  very  sleepy.  On  the  bare  earth 
beneath  her  the  others  were  getting  ready  for  a 
nap,  so  near  that  I  could  see  every  motion,  the 
settling  of  a  head,  the  blink  of  an  eyelid.  Occa- 
sionally through  the  tangle  of  grass  stems  came  the 
penetrating  gleam  of  their  eyes, — marvelously 
bright  eyes,  alert  and  intelligent. 

For  several  minutes  I  held  motionless,  still  flat 
to  the  ground,  listening  to  the  sleepy  talk,  admiring 
the  mottled-brown  plumage  of  a  breast  or  the 
bar  of  brilliant  color  drawn  athwart  a  sooty  wing. 
All  the  while  my  nose  was  trying  to  get  in  a 
warning  word,  telling  me  to  give  heed  that  the 
ducky  odor  which  flowed  in  waves  over  the  whole 
point  was  different  from  this  strong  reek,  as  of  a 
disturbed  nest,  in  the  near-by  grass;  but  my  eyes 
were  so  occupied  that  I  paid  no  attention  to  other 
senses.  As  the  duck  on  the  tussock  at  last  settled 
down  to  sleep  and  I  worked  my  toes  into  the  earth 
for  a  noiseless  push  forward,  there  was  a  slight 
but  startling  motion  almost  at  my  shoulder.  A 
neck  was  raised  and  twisted  sleepily,  as  if  to  get 

[279] 


How  Animals  Talk 


the  kink  out  of  it;  and  the  thrill  of  success  ran 
over  me  as  I  made  out  another  and  nearer  group 
of  ducks.  They  were  under  the  bank  and  the 
bending  grass,  where  I  had  completely  overlooked 
them.  Every  one  was  within  reach;  and  every 
one  I  could  see  had  his  head  drawn  in  or  tucked 
away  under  his  wing. 

Slowly  my  left  hand  stole  toward  them,  creeping 
forward  in  the  deliberate  fashion  of  a  measuring- 
worm,  first  the  fingers  stretched,  then  the  knuckles 
raised,  then  out  with  the  fingers  again.  It  would 
have  been  very  easy  to  stroke  or  to  catch  one  of 
the  birds  by  a  swift  motion;  but  that  was  not 
what  I  wanted,  and  would  have  instantly  spoiled 
the  whole  comedy.  For  the  right  effect,  the  hand 
must  rest  upon  a  duck  before  he  was  aware  of  it, 
so  quietly  that  at  first  he  would  give  his  attention 
to  the  hand  itself,  not  to  the  thing  it  came  from. 
Then  he  would  probably  give  it  a  questioning  peck, 
examine  it  curiously,  and  finally  grow  indifferent 
to  it,  as  other  birds  had  done  when  I  touched 
them  from  hiding.  But  here  my  head  was  too 
close  to  the  ground,  and  my  body  too  cramped 
for  easy  action.  As  my  hand  reached  the  edge 
of  the  bank,  just  over  an  unconscious  duck,  it 
ran  into  a  tuft  of  saw-grass,  which  cut  my  fingers 
and  rustled  dangerously.  To  clear  this  obstruc- 
tion I  drew  back  slightly,  lifted  up  a  grain;  and 

[280] 


Black  Mallards 


in  my  other  ear,  which  was  turned  away,  a  reso- 
nant voice  cried  Quock!  with  a  challenge  that 
broke  the  tension  like  a  pistol-shot. 

Involuntarily  I  turned  my  head,  just  when  I 
should  have  held  most  still;  and  so  I  lost  my 
chance.  There,  at  arm's-length  on  the  other  side 
of  the  point,  a  wild-eyed  duck  was  looking  over  the 
bank,  her  neck  stretched  like  a  taut  string,  her 
olive-colored  bill  pointing  straight  at  me.  She 
never  said  another  word,  and  had  no  need  to 
repeat  her  challenge.  All  over  the  point  and  along 
the  shore  necks  were  stretched  up  from  the  grass; 
a  dozen  alert  forms  rose  like  sentinels  from  as  many 
tussocks,  and  forty  pairs  of  keen  eyes  were  every 
one  searching  the  spot  at  which  the  old  hen-duck 
pointed  her  accusation. 

For  a  small  moment  that  tableau  lasted,  with- 
out a  sound,  without  a  motion;  while  one  was 
conscious  only  of  the  tense  necks,  the  pointing 
bills,  the  gleaming  little  eyes,  each  with  its  dia- 
mond-point of  light ;  and  then  the  old  duck  took 
wing.  She  did  not  even  crouch  to  jump,  so  far 
as  I  could  follow  her  motion;  she  simply  went 
into  the  air  like  a  rocket,  shooting  aloft  as  if 
hurled  from  a  spring.  As  she  rose,  there  was  an 
answering  rush  of  wings,  whoosh!  in  my  very  ears, 
a  surge  as  of  smitten  water  in  the  distance;  and 
in  the  same  fraction  of  an  instant  every  duck  to 

[281] 


How  Animals  Talk 


the  farthest  ends  of  the  pond  was  up  and  away  in 
a  wild  tumult  of  quacking. 

Only  one  of  these  birds  had  seen  me,  and  that 
one  probably  had  no  notion  of  what  she  had 
glimpsed  in  the  grass.  It  was  a  round  thing 
with  eyes,  and  it  moved  a  second  time — that  was 
enough  for  the  old  hen-duck,  and  the  others  did 
not  stop  to  ask  any  questions. 


XIV 

TWO  full  years  passed  before  I  returned  to 
my  pond  on  a  sunny  September  day,  in  my 
mind's  eye  seeing  it  smile  a  welcome,  hearing  it 
cry,  "Lo  here!  Lo  there!"  and  planning,  as  I 
came  down  the  silent  trail,  how  I  would  accept 
all  its  invitations.  First,  the  salt-lick  must  be 
spied  out  from  a  distance;  and  the  examination 
would  tell  me  whether  to  keep  on  down  my  own 
trail  or,  if  the  lick  were  occupied,  to  branch  off 
by  a  certain  game-path,  which  would  lead  me  to 
the  blind  where  I  had  so  often  watched  the  deer 
unseen.  Next,  I  would  have  a  restful  look  at  a 
mound  of  moss  swelling  above  the  bog  near  a 
certain  tamarack,  which  always  showed  the  first 

[283] 


How  Animals  Talk 


blush  of  crimson  in  midsummer,  and  which  became 
in  autumn  like  a  gorgeous  bed  of  Dutch  tulips, 
only  more  wondrously  colored.  Then  I  would 
look  into  the  doorway  under  the  larches,  where 
my  bear  had  disappeared.  I  always  picked  that 
out  from  a  hundred  similar  doorways  to  watch  or 
question  it  a  moment,  as  if  at  any  time  the  green 
curtain  might  open  to  let  the  bear  out.  For  a 
curious  thing  about  all  woodsmen  is  this:  if  they 
see  a  buck  or  a  bear  or  even  a  fox  enter  a  certain 
place,  they  must  forever  afterward  stop  to  have 
another  expectant  look  at  it. 

From  the  bear's  doorway  my  thoughts  turned 
naturally  to  a  little  bogan  of  my  pond,  which 
was  different  from  all  the  other  bogans,  because 
once  a  family  of  minks  darted  out  of  it  and  came 
dodging  along  the  shore  in  my  direction.  Luckily 
I  was  close  to  the  water  at  that  moment.  While 
the  minks  were  out  of  sight  under  some  bushes, 
I  swung  my  feet  over  the  bank  and  sat  down  in 
their  path  to  wait  for  them. 

In  advance  came  the  mother,  looking  rusty  in 
her  sunburnt  summer  coat,  and  she  was  evidently 
in  a  great  hurry  about  something.  The  little  ones, 
trailing  out  behind,  were  hard  put  to  it  to  keep 
up  the  pace.  She  was  fairly  under  me  before  she 
noticed  a  new  scent  in  the  air,  which  made  her 
halt  to  look  about  for  the  meaning  of  it.  Her  neck 

[284] 


Memories 


was  lifted,  weasel-fashion,  to  thrice  its  ordinary 
length;  at  the  end  of  it  her  pointed  head  swung 
like  a  vane  to  the  bank,  to  the  pond,  to  the  bank 
again;  while  her  busy  nose  wiggled  out  its  sharp 
questions.  Probably  she  had  no  notion  of  man, 
never  having  met  the  creature ;  neither  did  she  as- 
sociate the  motionless  figure  above  her  with  life  or 
danger.  She  passed  directly  over  one  of  my  shoes, 
halted  with  her  paws  raised  against  the  other,  and 
scampered  on  as  if  she  had  no  use  for  such  trifles. 
Before  the  little  ones  arrived  I  half  turned  to 
meet  them,  spreading  my  feet  so  as  to  leave  a 
narrow  passageway  between  the  heels;  and  over 
this,  as  a  cover,  rested  my  hand,  making  a  shadowy 
runway  such  as  minks  like.  When  the  kits  en- 
tered it,  sleek  and  glossy  and  half  grown,  I  touched 
them  lightly  on  the  neck,  feeling  the  soft  brush 
of  fur  and  the  ripple  of  elastic  muscles  as  one  after 
another  glided  under  my  finger,  with  no  more 
concern  than  if  it  had  been  one  of  the  roots 
among  which  they  were  accustomed  to  creep. 
But  when  the  last  one  came  I  blocked  the  runway 
by  placing  a  hand  squarely  across  it,  stopping  him 
short  in  great  astonishment.  He  sniffed  at  the 
obstruction,  and  his  nose  was  like  a  point  of  ice 
as  it  wandered  over  my  palm.  Then  he  tried  a 
finger  with  his  teeth,  wriggled  under  it  to  follow 
his  leader,  and  the  whole  family  disappeared  in  a 

[285] 


How  Animals  Talk 


twisting,  snakelike  procession  around  the  next 
bend.  These  were  wild  animals,  remember;  and 
ounce  for  ounce  there  is  no  more  "  savage "  beast 
in  the  woods  than  Cheokhes  the  mink. 

As  with  birds  or  beasts,  so  also  with  the  trees 
about  my  pond:  somehow  they  seemed  different 
from  all  other  trees,  perhaps  because  of  more 
intimate  association;  for  though  all  the  cedars 
or  hemlocks  of  a  forest  look  alike  to  a  stranger, 
no  sooner  do  you  spend  days  alone  among  them 
than  you  begin  to  have  a  curious  feeling  of  in- 
dividuality, of  comradeship,  of  understanding  even, 
as  if  they  were  not  wholly  dumb  or  insensate.  It 
was  inevitable,  therefore,  as  I  came  down  the  trail, 
recalling  this  or  that  tree  under  which  I  had  often 
passed  or  rested,  that  certain  of  them  stood  forth 
in  memory  as  having  given  me  pleasure  or  greeting 
in  the  lonely  woods,  just  as  certain  faces  emerge 
from  the  sea  of  faces  in  a  crowd  or  a  great  audience 
of  strangers,  and  instantly  make  one  feel  his  kin- 
ship to  humanity. 

Foremost  among  these  memorable  trees  was  a 
great  white-pine,  to  me  the  noblest  of  all  forest 
growths,  which  stood  on  a  knoll  to  westward  of 
my  pond,  on  the  way  to  camp,  and  which  always 
seemed  to  cry  hail  or  farewell  as  I  came  or  went. 
It  had  a  stem  to  make  one  wonder,  almost  to  make 
one  reverent.  Massive,  soft-colored,  finely  reticu- 

[286] 


Memories 


lated  it  was ;  wide  as  the  span  of  a  man's  arms, 
and  rising  near  a  hundred  feet  without  knot  or 
branch, — a  glorious  upspringing  shaft,  immensely 
strong,  yet  delicate  in  its  poise  as  a  lance  in  rest. 
From  the  top  of  the  shaft  rugged  arms  were 
stretched  out  above  the  tallest  trees,  and  on  these 
rested  lightly  as  a  cloud  its  crown  of  green.  Like 
others  that  overtop  their  fellows,  the  old  pine  had 
paid  the  penalty  of  greatness.  Whirlwinds  that 
left  lower  trees  untouched  had  stripped  it  of  half 
its  branches;  lightning  had  leaped  upon  it  from 
the  clouds,  leaving  a  spiral  scar  from  crown  to 
foot;  but  the  wound  which  threatened  its  death 
was  meanwhile  its  life,  because  the  lumbermen, 
seeing  the  lightning's  mark,  had  passed  on  and 
left  the  pine  in  its  solitary  grandeur. 

When  I  first  saw  that  tree  I  changed  the  trail  so 
as  to  pass  beneath  it;  and  thereafter  it  was  like  a 
living  presence,  benign  and  friendly,  beside  the 
way.  To  lay  a  hand  on  its  mighty  stem,  as  one 
passed  eastward  in  the  early  morning,  was  to 
receive  an  impression  of  renewed  power, — a  power 
which  the  scornful  might  attribute  to  imagination, 
the  chemist  to  electrons  or  radio-activity,  and  the 
simple  man  to  his  Mother  Nature.  At  evening, 
as  one  followed  the  dim  trail  homeward  in  the 
fading  light,  one  had  only  to  look  up  for  a  guiding 
sign;  and  there,  solemn  and  still  against  the  twi- 

[287] 


How  Animals  Talk 


light  splendor,  was  the  crown  of  the  old  pine  to 
give  direction.  Its  very  silence  at  such  an  hour 
was  like  the  Angelus  ringing.  To  halt  beneath  it, 
as  one  often  did  unconsciously,  was  to  feel  the 
spell  of  its  age,  its  serenity,  its  peace;  while 
harmonious  thoughts  came  or  went  attuned  to  the 
low  melody  of  the  winds,  crooning  their  vesper 
song  far  up  among  its  green  leaves.  And,  morn- 
ing or  midday  or  evening,  to  look  up  at  the  pine's 
lofty  crown,  which  had  tossed  in  the  free  winds 
that  bore  Pilgrim  and  Puritan  westward  with 
their  immortal  dream  of  freedom,  was  to  be  bound 
with  stronger  ties  of  loyalty  to  the  fathers  of  my 
native  state, — men  of  vision  and  imagination  as 
well  as  of  stern  courage,  who  heard  the  pine 
booming  out  its  psalm  to  the  gale  and  instantly 
adopted  it  as  their  new  symbol,  stamping  it  on 
their  coins  or  emblazoning  it  on  their  banners 
as  an  emblem  of  liberty.  Never  another  symbol, 
whether  dragon  or  eagle  or  lion,  had  so  much  maj- 
esty, or  was  so  worthy  of  free  men.  The  remem- 
brance of  it  in  any  national  crisis  or  call  to  duty 
sets  the  American  heart  beating  to  the  rhythm 
of  Whittier's" Pine-Tree": 

Lift  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's  rusted 

shield, 
Give  to  northern  winds  the   Pine-Tree  on  our  banner's 

tattered  field. 

[288] 


Memories 


Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles  round 

the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm  "Thus  saith 

the  Lord," 

Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom!   set  the  battle  in  array! 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons  must  do 

to-day. 

Very  different  from  the  majestic  pine  was  a 
little  larch-tree,  under  which  I  often  sat  while 
watching  the  deer.  As  I  came  down  the  trail, 
after  a  year's  absence,  it  would  seem  to  lift  its 
head  and  step  forth  from  all  the  other  larches, 
calling  out  cheerily:  "Welcome  once  more!  And 
why  so  long  away?  See,  here  is  your  old  place 
waiting."  And  drawing  aside  the  delicate 
branches,  I  would  find  the  seat  of  dry  moss  and 
springy  boughs,  the  back-rest,  the  open  window 
with  its  drapery  of  lace, — everything  just  as  I  had 
left  it. 

Near  this  sociable  young  larch  stood  its  dead 
ancestor,  grim  and  silent,  which  the  moths  had 
killed;  and  this,  too,  seemed  different  from  all 
other  trees  living  or  dead.  On  sunny  days  it 
threw  a  straight  shaft  of  shadow  over  my  blind; 
and  the  shadow  moved  along  the  ground  from 
west  to  east,  telling  the  creeping  hours  like  a  sun- 
dial. At  the  tip  of  the  lofty  stub  a  short  branch 
thrust  itself  out  at  a  right  angle,  and  this  served 

[289] 


How  Animals  Talk 


as  the  finger  of  my  strange  timepiece.  When  it 
rested  on  a  bed  of  brimming  pitcher-plants  it 
pointed  to  the  lunch  in  my  pocket ;  when  it  touched 
the  root  of  a  water-maple  it  spoke  of  the  home 
trail;  and  between,  at  irregular  intervals,  were  a 
nanny-bush,  a  tuft  of  wild  cotton  and  a  shy 
orchid  to  mark  the  less  important  hours.  Once, 
when  I  glanced  at  the  slow-moving  shadow,  it 
was  topped  by  a  striking  symbolic  figure,  and 
looking  up  quickly  I  found  an  eagle  perched  on 
the  outstretched  finger  of  my  dial.  After  that  the 
old  tamarack  had  a  new  dignity  in  my  eyes;  it 
stood  on  an  eagle's  line  of  flight,  one  of  his  regular 
ways  in  crossing  from  mountain  to  lake,  and  from 
it  the  kingly-looking  bird  was  wont  to  survey  this 
part  of  his  silent  domain,  the  sun  gleaming  on  his 
snow-white  crest. 

A  stone's-throw  behind  my  larch  blind  was  a 
portly  young  fir,  which  I  could  never  pass  without 
a  smile  as  it  nodded  to  remind  me  that  it  was  not 
like  other  firs.  Thousands  of  these  trees,  crowd- 
ing the  northern  forest,  seem  to  be  all  grown  on  the 
same  model,  like  peas  in  a  pod ;  but  this  one  had  a 
character  and  a  history  to  set  it  forever  apart  from 
its  kind.  And  this  is  the  tale  which  always  passed 
silently  between  us  when  we  met: 

One  day,  as  I  watched  some  deer  at  the  salt-lick, 
they  suddenly  became  uneasy,  looking  and  harking 

[290] 


Memories 


about  as  if  for  danger,  and  then  vanished  down  the 
several  game-trails.  Not  till  they  were  gone  did 
I  notice  that  the  air  was  ominously  still,  or  under- 
stand the  cause  of  the  alarm:  a  tempest  was 
coming,  and  the  sensitive  animals  were  away  to 
cover  before  my  dull  senses  had  picked  up  the 
first  warning  sign.  Soon  the  landscape  dark- 
ened ;  the  face  of  my  pond  became  as  I  had  never 
seen  it  before;  thunder  growled  in  the  distance; 
coppery  clouds  with  light  flaming  through  them 
came  rolling  over  the  tree-tops;  and  all  nature 
said,  as  plainly  as  a  fire-bell,  "Get  to  cover,  and 
quickly!" 

As  I  went  back  into  the  woods,  seeking  shelter, 
a  few  big  drops  hit  the  leaves  like  flails;  then  came 
a  pause,  still  as  death,  and  then  the  deluge. 
Ahead  in  the  gloom  I  spied  a  young  fir  (never 
pick  a  tall  tree,  or  a  solitary  tree,  in  a  tempest 
of  lightning)  which  thrust  out  a  mass  of  feathery 
branches  from  a  thicket  of  its  fellows.  "This  for 
mine,"  I  said  as  I  dived  under  it,  accompanied  by 
a  blinding  flare  of  light  and  an  ear-splitting  crack 
— and  almost  ran  against  the  heels  of  a  buck  that 
jumped  out  on  the  other  side.  By  an  odd  chance, 
one  in  ten  thousand,  he  had  picked  the  same  fir 
for  shelter,  and  was  no  doubt  thinking  he  had 
picked  well  when  I  came  blundering  in  with  the 
thunderbolt  and  drove  him  out  into  the  downpour. 

[291] 


How  Animals  Talk 


"Hold  on,  old  sport!  Come  back;  it's  your 
tree,"  I  called  after  him,  feeling  as  if  I  had  stolen 
a  child's  umbrella ;  but  he  paid  no  attention. 

Thinking  he  would  not  go  far,  and  knowing  he 
could  hear  or  smell  nothing  in  that  rush  of  rain 
and  crashing  of  thunder,  I  crept  slowly  after  him. 
There  he  was,  hunched  up  in  the  lee  of  a  big  hem- 
lock, ears  drooping,  legs  streaming,  and  little  spurts 
of  mist  popping  up  from  his  pelted  hide.  Though 
woebegone  enough,  he  had  not  forgotten  caution; 
oh  no !  trust  an  old  buck  for  that  in  any  weather. 
His  tail  was  to  the  tree,  his  head  turned  warily 
to  the  trail  over  which  he  had  come.  And  there  I 
left  him,  wishing  as  I  turned  back  that  he  would 
let  me  stand  under  his  hemlock,  or  else  come  and 
share  my  fir,  just  for  a  little  company. 

Near  the  lower  end  of  my  pond  was  still  another 
tree  which  I  must  revisit ;  yes,  surely,  not  only  for 
its  happy  memories,  but  also  in  anticipation  of 
some  merry  surprise,  of  which  it  seemed  to  have 
endless  store.  It  stood  on  a  bank  overlooking  a 
sunny  dell  in  the  woods,  a  wonderfully  pleasant 
place  where  no  wind  entered,  where  the  air  was 
always  fragrant,  and  a  runlet  of  cool  water  sang 
a  little  tune  to  itself  all  day  long.  Its  gnarled 
trunk  was  scarcely  more  than  a  shell,  which 
boomed  like  a  drum  when  a  woodpecker  sounded 
it;  and  above  were  hollow  limbs  with  knot-hole 

[292] 


Memories 


entrances,  offering  hospitality  to  any  wild  creature 
in  search  of  a  weather-proof  den  or  nesting-place. 

The  first  time  I  passed  this  old  tree  a  family  of 
red  squirrels  were  laying  claim  to  it  in  a  tiff  with 
some  larger  beast  or  bird,  which  slipped  away  as 
I  approached.  The  next  time  I  saw  it,  a  year 
later,  it  was  silent  and  apparently  deserted;  but 
as  I  rose  from  drinking  at  the  runlet  the  head  of  a 
little  gray  owl  appeared  at  a  knot-hole.  For  full 
ten  minutes  he  remained  there  motionless,  without 
word  or  sign  or  even  a  blink  to  say  that  he  was 
watching  me,  though  it  was  undoubtedly  some 
noise  or  stir  of  mine  which  brought  him  up  to  his 
window. 

After  that  I  fell  in  the  way  of  turning  aside  to 
loaf  awhile  under  the  inn-tree;  and  rarely  could 
one  loaf  there  very  long  without  overhearing 
something  not  intended  for  a  stranger's  ear,  some 
low  dialogue  or  hammering  signal  or  petulant 
whining  or  cautious  scratching,  to  remind  one 
of  the  running  comedy  of  the  woods.  It  was 
evidently  an  exchange,  a  crossroad  or  meeting- 
place  for  the  wood  folk,  calling  in  every  passer-by 
as  a  certain  store  or  corner  of  a  sleepy  town  in- 
vites all  idlers,  boys  and  stray  dogs,  while  other 
stores  or  corners  are  empty,  save  for  women  folk, 
and  quite  respectable. 

Once  in  the  late  morning,  as  I  sat  with  an  ear  to 

20  [  293  ] 


How  Animals  Talk 


the  resonant  shell,  listening  to  the  talk  of  unseen 
creatures  which  I  fancied  were  young  'coons,  a 
big  log-cock  flashed  into  the  old  tree,  drew  himself 
up  on  a  stub  over  my  head,  and  seemed  to  cock 
his  ear  at  the  voices  to  which  I  had  been  listening. 
Now  the  log-cock  is  naturally  a  wary  bird,  shy 
and  difficult  of  approach;  but  this  gorgeous  fellow 
with  the  scarlet  crest  became  almost  sociable  in 
his  curiosity,  perhaps  because  the  place  was  so 
quiet,  so  friendly,  with  no  motion  or  hint  of  danger 
to  disturb  its  tranquillity.  He  saw  me  at  once, 
as  the  change  in  his  bright  eye  plainly  said;  but, 
deceived  by  my  stillness  or  the  sober  coloring  of  my 
clothes,  he  set  me  down  as  a  tree-fungus  or  mush- 
room that  had  grown  since  his  last  visit,  and 
looked  about  for  something  more  interesting. 
When  I  called  his  attention  by  a  curt  nod,  telling 
him  that  this  was  no  dull  mushroom,  he  came  down 
at  once  to  light  against  the  side  of  the  tree,  where 
he  examined  my  head  minutely.  Learning  noth- 
ing from  my  wink,  he  went  around  the  tree  in  a 
series  of  side-jumps  to  have  a  look  from  the  other 
side;  then  he  hopped  up  and  down,  this  side  or 
that,  all  the  while  uttering  a  low  surprised  chatter. 
Even  when  I  began  to  flip  bits  of  wood  at  him 
(for  he  soon  grew  impatient,  and  interrupted  the 
'coon  talk  by  an  unseemly  rapping),  instead  of 
rushing  off  in  alarm,  he  twice  followed  a  missile 

[294] 


Memories 


that  rattled  near  him,  as  if  to  demand,  "Well,  what 
in  the  world  sent  you  flying?"  Presently  he  sent 
forth  a  call,  not  the  loud,  high,  prolonged  note 
which  you  hear  from  him  at  a  distance,  but  a  soft, 
wheedling  ah-koo!  ah-koo!  only  twice  repeated. 
When  his  call  was  answered  in  a  different  strain, 
a  questioning  strain  it  seemed  to  me,  he  darted 
away  and  returned  within  the  minute  accompanied 
by  another  log-cock. 

But  enough  of  such  pictures!  They  flash  joy- 
ously upon  the  mental  vision  whenever  one  recalls 
a  cherished  spot  in  the  woods,  but  fade  quickly 
if  one  attempts  to  hold  or  describe  them,  saying 
as  they  vanish  that  the  lure  of  solitary  lakes,  the 
companionship  of  trees,  the  fascination  of  wild 
creatures  that  hide  and  look  forth  with  roundly 
curious  eyes  at  a  stranger's  approach, — these  are 
matters  that  can  never  be  set  down  in  words: 
the  best  always  escapes  in  the  telling.  I  meant 
only  to  say  (when  my  pine  lifted  its  crown  in  the 
light  of  an  evening  sky,  and  then  the  mink  family 
came  dodging  along  the  shore  of  memory,  and  the 
buck  and  the  log-cock  interrupted  to  urge  me  be 
sure  and  tell  the  happiest  part  of  the  story  before 
I  made  an  end)  that  many  pleasant  memories 
greeted  me  as  I  came  down  the  silent  trail  after 
a  long  absence.  In  the  distance  sounded  a  lusty 
quacking;  my  imagination  painted  the  mallards 

[295]  ' 


How  Animals  Talk 


at  the  end  of  the  alder  run,  with  sunshiny  water 
and  crimson  bog  and  misty-green  larches  around 
them,  as  a  frame  for  the  picture;  and  then  the 
whole  beautiful  anticipation  came  tumbling  in 
ruin  about  my  ears. 

Before  I  reached  my  pond,  before  I  saw  the 
welcoming  gleam  of  it  even,  I  was  at  every  step 
going  over  my  shoetops  in  water,  where  formerly 
I  had  always  found  dry  footing.  Something  dis- 
astrous had  happened  in  my  absence;  the  whole 
bog  was  overflowed;  around  it  was  no  mist  of 
delicate  foliage  but  only  skeleton  trees,  stark  and 
pitiful.  In  my  heart  I  was  berating  the  lumber- 
men, whose  ugly  works  are  the  ruination  of  every 
place  they  visit,  when  at  last  I  waded  to  an  open- 
ing that  gave  outlook  on  my  pond;  and  the  first 
thing  I  noticed,  as  my  eyes  swept  the  familiar 
scene,  was  a  beaver-house  cocked  up  on  the  shore, 
like  a  warning  sign  of  new  ownership. 

It  is  true  that  blessings  brighten  as  they  take 
their  flight:  not  till  I  read  that  crude  sign  of 
dispossession  did  I  know  how  much  pleasure  my 
little  pond  had  given  me.  The  lonely  beauty 
which  could  quiet  a  man  like  a  psalm,  or  like  an 
Indian's  wordless  prayer;  the  glimpses  of  wild 
creatures  at  home  and  unafraid ;  the  succession  of 
radiant  pictures,  at  sunny  midday,  or  beneath  the 
hushed  twilight,  or  in  the  expectant  morning  be- 

[296] 


Memories 


fore  the  shadows  come, — all  these  had  suddenly 
taken  wing,  driven  away  by  mud-grubbing  animals 
with  a  notion  in  their  dull  heads  that  they  wanted 
deeper  water  about  the  site  they  had  chosen  for 
their  house  of  sticks.  It  was  too  bad,  too  hope- 
less! I  might  have  prevented  the  ruin  had  I 
known ;  but  now  it  was  beyond  all  remedy.  With 
a  different  interest,  therefore,  and  still  resentful 
that  my  pond  was  spoiled  as  thoroughly  as  any 
lumberman  would  have  spoiled  it,  I  made  my 
way  around  the  flood  to  examine  the  beavers'  work 
at  the  outlet. 


XV 


HIDDEN  among  the  larches  at  the  lower  end 
of  my  pond  was  a  tiny  outgoing  stream,  which 
had  proved  hard  to  find  when  first  I  explored  the 
region,  and  almost  impossible  to  follow  afterward. 
Under  a  fallen  log,  so  weathered  and  mossy  that 
it  seemed  part  of  the  natural  shore,  a  volume  of 
water  escaped  without  ripple  or  murmur,  wander- 
ing away  under  bending  grasses  to  lose  itself  in 
an  alder  swamp,  where  innumerable  channels  of- 
fered it  lingering  passage.  From  the  swamp  it 
found  its  way,  creepingly,  among  brooding  cedars 
to  a  little  brook,  which  went  singing  far  down 
through  the  woods  to  Upper  Pine  Pond;  and 
beyond  that  on  the  farther  side  was  a  long  dead- 

[298] 


Beaver  Work 


water,  and  then  Pine  Stream  making  its  tortuous 
way  through  an  untraveled  region  to  the  Penob- 
scot.  The  nearest  beavers,  a  colony  of  four  lodges 
which  I  unearthed  on  a  hidden  branch  of  Pine 
Stream,  were  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  away,  as  the 
water  flowed;  yet  over  all  that  distance  an  ex- 
ploring family  had  made  its  lonely  way,  guided  at 
every  turn  by  the  flavor  of  distant  springs,  till  one 
after  another  they  crept  under  the  fallen  log  and 
entered  my  pond,  which  was  solitary  enough  to 
satisfy  even  their  pioneer  instincts.  They  had 
first  picked  a  site  for  their  new  lodge,  on  a  point 
overlooking  the  lower  half  of  the  pond,  and  had 
then  gone  back  to  the  outlet  to  raise  the  water. 

Their  dam  was  a  rare  piece  of  wild  engineering; 
so  much  I  had  to  confess,  even  while  I  wished  that 
the  beavers  had  chosen  some  other  place  to  dis- 
play their  craft.  Finding  where  the  water  escaped, 
they  stopped  the  opening  beneath  the  log,  and 
made  a  bank  of  mud  and  alder-brush  above  it. 
This  bank  was  carried  out  a  dozen  feet  or  more  on 
either  side  of  the  stream,  the  ends  being  bent 
forward  (toward  the  pond  above)  so  as  to  make 
a  very  fine  concave  arch.  On  a  small  or  quiet 
stream  like  this,  beavers  almost  invariably  build 
a  straight  dam;  and  where  swift  water  calls  for  a 
stronger  or  curving  structure,  they  present  the 
convex  side  to  the  current;  but  here  they  had 

[299] 


How  Animals  Talk 


reversed  both  rules,  for  some  reason  or  impulse 
which  I  could  not  fathom, — except  on  the  im- 
probable assumption  that  the  animals  could  foresee 
the  end  of  their  work  from  the  beginning.  The 
finished  dam  was  an  amazingly  good  one,  as  you 
shall  see;  but  whether  it  resulted  from  planning 
or  happy  experiment  or  just  following  the  water, 
only  a  certain  old  beaver  could  tell. 

Since  there  was  no  other  outlet  to  my  pond,  the 
beavers  were  obliged  to  build  here;  but  the  site 
was  a  poor  one,  the  land  being  uniformly  low  on  all 
sides,  and  no  sooner  did  they  finish  their  dam  than 
the  rising  water  flowed  around  both  ends  of  it. 
To  remedy  this  they  pushed  out  a  curving  wing 
from  either  end  of  their  first  arch,  so  that  the  line 
of  their  dam  was  now  a  pretty  triple-curve.  Again 
and  again  the  outgoing  water  crept  around  the 
obstacle ;  each  time  the  beavers  added  other  curv- 
ing wings,  now  on  this  side,  now  on  that,  bending 
them  steadily  forward  till  the  top  of  their  dam 
suggested  the  rim  of  an  enormous  scallop-shell. 
Then,  finding  the  water  deep  enough  for  their 
needs,  they  thrust  out  a  straight  wing  from  either 
end  of  their  dam,  resting  their  work  on  the  slopes 
of  two  hillocks  in  the  woods,  some  fifty  yards 
apart, — this  in  a  straight  line,  or  across  the  hinge 
of  the  scallop-shell :  if  measured  on  the  curves,  their 
dam  was  three  or  four  times  that  length.  Their 

[300] 


Beaver  Work 


next  task  was  to  build  a  lodge  on  the  point  above ; 
then  they  dug  a  canal  through  the  bog  to  the 
nearest  grove  of  hardwood,  and  cut  down  a  liberal 
part  of  the  trees  for  their  winter  supply  of  bark. 
The  branches  of  these  trees  had  been  cut  into 
convenient  lengths,  floated  through  the  canal,  and 
stored  in  a  great  food-pile  in  the  deep  water  near 
the  lodge. 

When  I  found  the  dam,  several  deer  (to  judge 
from  the  tracks)  were  already  using  the  top  of  it 
as  a  runway  in  passing  from  the  flooded  ground 
on  one  side  of  the  pond  to  the  other.  From  either 
end  a  game-trail  led  upward  along  the  shore,  no 
longer  following  immemorial  paths  over  the  bog, 
which  was  submerged  with  all  its  splendor  of  color, 
but  making  a  new  and  rougher  way  through  the 
black  growth.  When  I  followed  one  of  these  trails 
it  led  me  completely  around  the  pond,  going  con- 
fidently till  it  neared  the  salt-lick,  where  it  halted, 
wavered  and  trickled  out  in  aimless  wanderings. 
There,  where  once  the  ground  was  trodden  smooth 
by  many  feet,  was  now  no  ground  to  be  seen.  The 
precious  spring,  over  which  a  thousand  generations 
of  deer  had  lingered,  had  vanished  in  a  dull  waste 
of  water.  Twice  I  watched  the  place  from  early 
morning  till  owls  began  to  cry  the  twilight;  in 
that  time  only  a  few  animals  appeared,  singly,  at 
long  intervals;  and  after  wandering  about  as  if 

[301] 


How  Animals  Talk 


seeking  something  and  finding  it  not,  they  dis- 
appeared in  the  dusky  woods. 

And  so  I  went  away,  looking  for  the  last  time 
sadly  on  the  little  pond,  as  upon  a  place  one  has 
owned  and  loved,  but  which  has  passed  into  other 
hands.  Though  the  wild  ducks  still  breed  or 
gather  there,  it  is  no  longer  the  same.  There  is 
no  restful  spot  from  which  to  watch  the  waters 
dance  with  the  wind,  or  frown  at  the  cloud,  or 
smile  at  the  sunshine;  the  little  larches  are  all 
dead  beside  their  ancestors ;  the  carpet  of  colored 
moss  is  but  a  memory.  When  the  beavers  go  to 
pioneer  a  remoter  spot,  I  shall  break  their  dam 
and  let  the  water  return  to  its  ancient  level. 
Then,  if  happily  I  live  long  enough  for  another 
fringe  of  larches  to  grow,  and  another  mossy  rug 
to  crimson  under  the  waning  sun,  perhaps  it  will 
be  my  pond  once  more. 


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